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Photographic 

Sciences 
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Pages  damaged/ 
Pages  endommagdes 

Pages  restored  and/oi 

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first  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
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or  illustrated  impression. 


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whichever  applies. 

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•'  .1 


AMERICAN    PROSE 


SELECTIONS 


WITH 


CRITICAL    INTRODUCTIONS    BY    VARIOUS 

WRITERS    AND    A    GENERAL 

INTRODUCTION 


EDITED  BY 


GEORGE  RICE  CARPENTER 

PROFESSOR  OF  RHETORIC  AND  ENGLISH  COMPOSITION 
IN  COLUMBIA  UNIVERSITY 


THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

LONDON:  MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LTD. 
1898 

All  rights  rtstrvid 


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Copyright,  189B, 
Bv  GEORGE  R.  CARPENTER. 

J"    , 

COPYKIGHT,   1898, 

Bv  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


,     (?^. 


TWO  COPIES  RtCtlVEO. 

Koifatoeti  Tpxn* 

J.  8.  Cuihing  k  Co.  -  Berwick  k  Smith 
Norwood  MaM.  U.8.A. 


16'j3. 


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PREFACE  '  , 

This  volume  follows  in  general  the  plan  adopted  in  Mr.  Craik's 
English  Prose  and  in  Mr.  Ward's  English  Poets.     Its  object  is  to 
present  extracts  of  considerable  length  from  the  works  of  each  of 
the  chief  American  prose-writers,  preceded  by  a  critical  essay  and 
a  brief  biographical  sketch.      Authors  now  living  — great  as  has 
been  the  temptation  —  are  not  included.    The  text  of  the  extracts 
has  been  carefully  reprinted  from  the  best  editions,  without  any 
attempt  at  producing  uniformity  in  spelling  or  punctuation.     The 
source  of  each  extract  is  explicitly  stated.    The  editor  is  respon- 
sible for  the  selection  of  the  authors,  the  choice  of  the  extracts, 
and  for  the  biographical  sketches  of  Brown,  Irving,  Cooper,  Haw- 
thorne, Longfellow,  Poe,  Thoreau,  Whitman,  and  Lowell.    Thanks 
are  due  to  many  publishers,  whose  names  are  mentioned  in  the 
appropriate  places,  for  their  k;.idness  in  allowing  the  use  of  ex- 
tracts from  works  still  in  copyright,  or  revised  texts,  still  in  copy- 
right, of  works    thai    themselves  have   alraady  passed  out  of 
copyright.      On  the  other  hand,  it  must  be  stated  that  to  the 
singular  unwillingness  of  the  publishers  of  Holmes's  writings  to 
allow  the  use  of  a  few  thousand  words  from  his  principal  works 
is  due  the  absence  of  extracts  from  Holmes  in  this  volume. 

Indifference  to  American  literature,  as  well  as  ignorance  of  its 
history,  its  developmer^Van'd  its  value',  is  so  common  among  us, 
even  with  those  whose  passion  is  the  study  of  the  literatures  of 
other  lands,  that  it  is  hoped  that  this  volume  may  open  the  eyes 


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VI  FKEFACE 

of  many  to  its  interest  and  beauty.  English  literature,  from  about 
Dryden's  tiuie  on,  falls  into  two  main  branches,  —  that  produced 
in  Oreat  Biitain  and  that  produced  in  the  United  States.  In  the 
Introduction  I  have  shown  why  I  believe  that  the  ppise  literature 
produced  here  during  this  long  period,  whatever  may  be  saiil  of 
the  poetry,  is  one  of  the  most  interesting  in  the  world,  and  may 
appropriately  be  placed,  not  indeed  first  or  second,  but  probably 
third,  and  certainly  not  lower  than  fourth,  among  modern  prose 
literatures.  But  whatever  be  its  value  to  humanity  at  large,  it 
is  ours ;  and  surely  no  American  can  read  sympathetically  the 
body  of  literature  here  presented  without  realizing  —  perhaps  for 
the  first  time — that  even  from  colonial  times  the  deepest  and 
most  characteristic  sides  of  our  national  life  and  feeling  have  been 
reproduced  in  our  prose. 

Ill  conclusion  it  is  proper  tj  say  that  the  number  and  length 
of  the  extracts  have  been  determined  not  so  much  by  a  desire  to 
indicate  the  relative  rank  of  the  several  authors  as  by  a  desire  to 
give  a  clear  impression  of  the  range  and  character  of  each 
author's  production,  and,  in  some  cases,  of  the  degree  to  which 
he  expressed  dominant  moods  of  national  feeling. 


G.  R.  C. 


August  i,  1898. 


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ire,  from  about 
that  protluced 
States.  In  the 
•r'isc  literature 
lay  be  said  of 
arid,  and  may 

but  probably 
modern  prose 
ty  at  large,  it 
ithetically  the 
—  perhaps  for 

deepest  and 
ing  have  been 

;r  and  length 
by  a  desire  to 
yy  a  desire  to 
cter  of  each 
ree  to  which 

G.  R.  c. 


CONTENTS 


INTRODUCTION         .        .        .        ..-";".    The  Editor  '*" 

COTTON  MATHER BARRrrr  VVenoeix  i 

■  The  Churches  of  New  England • 

^  V      f  The  I'hantum  Ship g 

'^^       The  l^st  Uuy»  of  Theophilus  Eaton g 

The  Piety  of  Thomas  Sheparcl ,g 

^John  Eliot  and  the  Indian  Language .II 

JONATHAN   EDWARDS    .                .  Eoward  EvERExr  Hai.«,  Jr.  13 

^  Nature  and  Holiness ,5 

Sarah  I'ierrepopt .        ^.^    v^^        ^  jg 

^^^        Sin's  Entrance  into  the  World  .        .         .        .10 

>        ^  N»tural  Men  are  God's  Enemies 21 

The  Legacy  of  Christ 2^ 

BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN William  P.  Trent  a; 

Franklin's  Entrance  into  Philadelphia ,, 

A  Scheme  for  Perfection          .         .        ,        .        ,        ,        ;  « 

(-^       The  Way  to  Wealth                           .        .        .                 ...  36 

Letter  to  Mr.  Strahan 

Letter  to  Joseph  Priestley >. 

A  Dialogue -, 

^   GEORGE  WASHINGTON William  P.  Trent  48 

To  the  Governors  of  All  the  States ci 

THOMAS  PAINE        .        .       .        ,       ,       .        Munroe  Smith  62 

Government  and  Freedom 55 

An  American  Navy gg 

^        The  Crisis -q 

The  Universal  Right  of  Conscience »3 

A  Profession  of  Faith - , 

vU 


vm  CONTENTS 

■  '  / 

PAOt 

/riiOMAS  JKI-KKKSON William  P.  Trent  76 

^^    Declaration  of  Imlcpcndence yf 

CHARLES   HR(XKI)|:N   IJKOVVN 

Thomas  Wkntwoktii  IlKiuiNSdN  84 

Ailvuuturc  with  a  dray  Cougar 89 

StciiL-  niniinK  Inilianx 93 

(         rhilailelpiiia  ilurinj;  llie  Yellow  Kevcr 97 

UANIKI.  WKHSTER Harry  Thurston  Pkxk  101 

'I'he  Kxample  of  Our  Country 105 

S|)i'uch  of  John  Adams 106 

^.     Liberty  ami  Union ,;       ,        .        ,  109 

^      The  Uruin-l)oat  of  Ln^land «>      t         •  II4 

Americon  Interest  in  Ut'iiulilican  Government          .        .        ,        .  115 

WASHlNCnON   n<VING     ....       Brandkr  Maithews  119 

Wouter  Van  Twillcr 124 

Rip  Van  Win'ile 130 

*^    The'Enchanted  Steed               ,        .        .        ,        ,        ...  134 

JAMES  FENIMORE  COOl'ER    .   Thomas  Wentwortm  Higginson  147 

Hawkeyc  and  his  Erienda        , ,  153 

^      The  ^nW  and  the //A:*-*-!/)'     ,       •       *       '(^       •        .        •        .163 

WILLIAM   HICKLING  PRESCOTT 

Edward  Everett  Hale,  Jr.  172 

The  Battle  of  Otumba      . 175 

The  Pillage  of  Cuzco        .        ./ 180 

RALPH   VVALUO  EMERSON   .        .                George  Santayana  187 

The  Scholar 194 

Self-Keliance .        .        .        .198 

^*     Experience       ....                 ......  aoj 

Nature                      .      .  ,        .                 .        ...        .        .  9o8 

NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE   .        .        .  Lewis  Edwards  Gates  213 

The  Procession  of  Life 221 

Fcathertop 224 

The  Revelation  of  the  Scarlet  Letter 235 

HENRY  WADSVVORTH  LONGFELLOW 

Charles  F.  Richardson  244 

^"'^^.V         Footprints  of  Angels 348 

C^       The  Valley  of  the  Loire   .        .        .        .        .        .        ...  35a 


■■tiiiti  iiniiiiijiir  ■niiiiiiiiiiiMyliniif 


L_ 


PAOI 

p.  Treni 

76 

►       » .  ■ , 

79 

IIkkiinsom 

84 

>       t 

89 

• 

93 

■ 

97 

rroN  Pkxk 

101 

►       • 

'OS 

►  ■  '■    • 

106 

t  '■    t 

109 

t  '-\   ■ 

114 

• 

"5 

Maitiiews 

119 

•24 

• 

130 

• 

•34 

HlGGINSON 

•47 

, 

•53 

• 

162 

Hale,  Jr 

172 

•75 

180 

5ANTAYANA 

187 

• 

•94 

• 

198 

. 

203 

. 

208 

RDs  Gates 

"3 

. 

221 

. 

224 

• 

235 

CHARDSON 

244 

. 

248 

•               -     • 

252 

C0Arr/:/V7s 


/AHNAIIAM    MNIOI.N 

Kiml  limtiKural  AdilrestN   . 
LclUr  lo  Cimoral  Mi(  Kllan 
A(lilri»s  fit  (iftlynlmrj; 
Second  liuiutfural  Adclrcw 

JilHIAR    AM.AN    If)!', 
SlinddW  —  A  I'lualilt; 


f-^ 


I  .i^i'in 


»  'I'hf  MiirdiT!!  in  the  Kiio  Miir^iu; 

The  Masi|iio  ■>f  llic  \<ci\  Dcalh 
The  rro«e  Tale 


OMVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 

HAKUIET   IIEECIIEK   STOWE 

Eli/a's  i;»capi; 

To|)»y       .         .         .         ■         , 


JOHN   LOIHROP  MOTLEY      . 
The  KeliRion  of  William  of  Orange 
'I'lic  Relief  of  F,ev(lfn 


HENRY  DAVH)  THOREAU 

Style  in  WritinR 
A  Village  Kistival    . 
Personal  Aims 
.Soun<lii  at  Evening  . 
Solifnde   .... 
Immortality 


JAMES   RUSSELL   LOWELL    . 
The  Vankee  (!haracter     . 
Cani))rid(;e  Thirty  Years  Ago^: — 
Keats's  Poetry 


WALT   WHITMAN      . 

The  West  antl  Democracy 

Democracy       .         .         ,         ,  ' 

American  Literature 

A  Night  Battle 

Unnamed  remains  the  Bravest  Soldier 

Entering  a  Long  Farm-Lane    ,        . 


.  Hakkv  Thurston  Pi,(  k 


Lewis  K 


DWARDS  CIaTKS 


NciR.MAN   Haikjooi) 
KiciiAKU  Burton 


Edward  Everett  Hale,  Jr. 


Thomas  Wentworth  HianiNsoN 


Cmari-es  Emot  Norton 


George  Tantayana 


ix 

PAoa 

257 
260 

263 

364 

365 

368 
376 
278 
3S4 
395 

299 

303 
308 

3^a 
3'9 

323 
326 

330 

338 
343 

«346 
348 
35> 
353 

.356 

3S8 
3*3 

36s 
380 

383 
389 
390 
393 
395 
397 
398 


\ 


L. 


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i^Pf^tf^i^^ifmi^^r^fo'  'ir 


'Ym'^'^9i"t9mv»»'fimi!m»K^''  ■"  'ipippuppwi' 


h 


X  CONTENTS 

PACE 

Manhattan  from  the  Bay 398 

Human  and  Heroic  New  York         .......  399 

America's  Characteristic  Landsca])e          ......  401 

The  Silent  General  ..........  401 

ULYSSES  S.  GRANT Hamun  Garland  403 

Wolves  and  Politicians     . 407 

Lee's  Surrender       ..........  409 

GEORGE  WILLLVM  CURTIS    .                 William  Dean  Howei.ls  417 

The  Dutv  of  the  American  Scholar 421 

Titbottom's  Grandfather 423 

The  Puritan  Spirit 427 

FRANCIS  PARKMAN John  Fiske  433 

The  Black  Hills 437 

The  American  Indian 440 

The  Capture  of  Quebec 444 

APPENDIX 451 


I 


irggfe 


«WiJliiliiJ||ll||PPfWi> 


FACB 

•  399 

•  401 
.  401 

ARLANl)  403 

.    ,  409 

OWEI.LS  417 

.  421 

.     -423 

•  427 

J  FiSKE  433 

•  437 
.  440 


4S> 


INTRODUCTION 


Scarcely  a  year  goes  by  without  some  contribution  of  impor- 
tance to  the  history  of  American  literature,  but  much  yet  remains 
to  be  done.  The  rise  and  fa!i  of  schools,  the  prevalence  and  per- 
manence of  certain  types,  the  influence  of  foreign  models,  remain 
still  to  be  investigated  4.  id  explained.  Criticism  of  our  literature 
has  scarcely  begun,  and  it  will  be  impossible  for  sound  ideas  of  the 
value  and  bearing  of  American  work  to  prevail  among  our  people 
until  scholars  have  studied  our  literature  as  our  history  and  our 
political  system  have  already  been  studied,  noting  with  care  the 
peculiar  qualities  that  our  poets  and  prose-writers  possess  as  a 
class,  and  determining,  on  a  comparative  basis,  what  are  the  essen- 
tial characteristics,  however  precious  or  however  mediocre,  that 
belong  to  our  literature,  for  such  criticism,  materials  are  rapidly 
accumulating.  The  whole  history  of  our  country,  social,  political, 
and  literary,  is  being  thoroughly  explored.  Through  the  publica- 
tion of  biographies,  letters,  and  journals,  through  researches  into 
the  development  of  intellectual,  moral,  and  political  movements, 
through  our  growing  knowledge  and  appreciation  of  existing  and 
preexisting  social  conditions,  we  begin  slowly  to  understand  what 
has  been  the  course  of  affairs  in  the  United  States  since  the  foun- 
dation of  the  colonies,  and  slowly  to  realize  what  part  literature 
has  played  in  our  national  development. 

Our  interest  in  the  literature  that  has  originated  among  us  must 
not  be  taken  as  a  sign  of  our  belief  that  this  literature  is  to  be 
ranked  high  among  the  literatures  of  the  world.  That  is  for  time 
to  determine.  But  however  humble  our  literature  may  be,  and 
however  young,  it  is  still  ours,  bound  to  us  by  a  thousand  natural 
ties.  Its  name  is  inappropriate  :  "  American  "  literature  is  an  inexact, 
though  unavoidable,  term  for  the  literature  of  the  United  States, 
and  would  seem  to  imply  larger  boundaries  than  those  we  possess. 


iiMaiiiiiii 


m 


iiMMiim 


laa^fwifw 


mmitT*-"  Hi   I  iif 


::r 


XII 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


^-^ 


ril 


But  within  tue  territory  where  this  literature  had  its  birth,  affe  :tion 
for  it  and  a  feeling  of  ownership  in  it  are  steadily  increasing. 
During  the  colonial  i)erio(l  much  of  what  was  produced  here  could 
scarcely  be  distinguished  from  the  contemporary  work  of  minor 
British  writers,  mough  even  Mather  and  Edwards,  to  an  attentive 
eye,  present  traits  that  distinguish  them  from  their  brethren  across 
the  sea,  and  we  cannot  imagine  Franklin  as  the  native  of  any  land 
but  our  own.  Certainly,  from  tiie  end  of  the  colonial  period  for- 
ward, the  character  of  our  literature  became  individual  almost  in 
proportion  as  the  character  of  the  nation  became  distinct.  American 
literature  has  never  become  independent  of  outside  influences,  nor 
ceased  often  to  follow  foreign  models.  No  living  literature  of 
modern  times  can  be  independent  of  other  literatures  ;  indeed,  it 
is  the  glory  of  English  literature,  on  both  sides  of  the  Atlantic,  that  it 
has  been  open  to  influences  from  without,  freely  absorbing  strange 
ideals,  but  assimilating  them  thoroughly.  Comparative  criticism 
has  yet-  to  show  how  extensive  the  process  of  absorption  and 
assimilation  has  been  with  us  ;  but  it  is  plain,  even  to  the  supeificial 
observer,  that  whatever  may  be  the  points  of  likeness  between  our- 
selves and  others,  there  a  e,  at  least,  elements  in  our  national 
literature  that  are  peculiar'/  characteristic  of  us  as  a  people.  In 
a  literature  thus  bene  of  our  bone  and  flesh  of  our  flesh  it  is 
natural  and  human  that  we  should  take  a  strong  and  an  increasing 
interest. 

There  are,  however,  reasons  other  than  those  of  blind  affection 
that  make  American  literature  interesting  and  important.  First, 
the  period  covered  by  it  is,  in  reality,  a  long  one.  We  are  accus- 
tomed to  think  ourselves  a  young  people,  and  yet  it  is  nearly  three 
hundred  years  since  books  in  the  English  language  began  to  be 
written  in  this  continent.  The  fiist  books  written  here  were  con- 
temporary with  Shakspere's  plays;  the  first  books  printed  here 
were  contemporary  with  those  of  Milton  ;  the  first  American-born 
authors  were  contemporary  with  Dryden  and  Defoe.  The  period 
covered  by  American  literature  includes,  therefore,  the  whole  mod- 
ern movement  of  European  thought  and  life,  —  the  movement 
that  began  with  the  Renaissance  and  the  Reformation,  and  that 
passed,  through  the  age  in  which  pure  reason  held  its  sway,  through 
the  stormy  period  of  Romantic  enthusiasm,  into  the  strangely 


I  litfefwiiifttiimiiit'i 


liiilifiiillliliillUBIf'i  '  ■ 


mm 


r^ 


h,  affe  :tion 
increasing, 
here  could 
k  of  minor 
in  attentive 
hren  across 
of  any  land 
period  for- 

I  almost  in 
.  American 
uences,  nor 
iterature  of 
;  indeed,  it 
mtic,  that  it 
)ing  strange 
/e  criticism 
irption  and 
e  supeificial 
etween  our- 
)iir  national 
people.     In 

flesh  it  is 

II  increasing 

nd  affection 
ant.  First, 
e  are  accus- 
nearly  three 
began  to  be 
e  were  con- 
rinted  here 
lerican-born 
The  period 
whole  mod- 
movement 
n,  and  that 
vay,  through 
le  strangely 


AMERICAN  PROSE  3^ 

composite  era  of  to-day.  .'\nd  although  the  works  produced  here 
have  not  at  all  times  been  of  great  importance,  the  continuity 
has  been  unbroken.  In  our  branch  of  English  literature,  as  in 
that  of  Great  Britain,  we  may  trace  the  development  of  modern 
culture. 

American  literature,  again,  is  interesting  and  important  because 
it  is  the  characteristic  expression  of  a  new  nation,  and  a  nation 
whose  life  is  based,  on  the  whole,  upon  a  single  and  consistent  set 
of  principles-.  Though  our  people  speak  a  common  language,  we 
did  not  spring  from  a  single  race,  but  are  rather  formed,  and  are 
still  being  formed,  from  many  races,  each  contributing  its  quota  of 
men  who  chose  voluntarily  to  live  and  act  under  given  responsibili- 
ties, and  in  pursuit  of  given  ideals,  i  nese  responsibilities  and 
these  ideals  are  well  known  ;  they  assert  the  right  of  the  individual 
to  complete  freedom  in  his  own  affairs,  except  where  the  common 
good,  as  determined  by  the  representatives  of  each  individual, 
makes  restriction  necessary.  This  noble,  citizen's  ideal  of  a  life 
free,  self-reliant,  but  responsible,  shows  itself  clearly,  to  my  mind, 
in  our  literature,  and  is  the  source  of  its  strongest  characteristics. 
Each  step  in  our  history  has  served  to  perpetuate  the  tendency  of 
citizen  and  author  not  only  to  search  for  a  clear  understanding  of 
his  own  mind  and  heart,  but  to  look  carefully  at  the  minds  and 
hearts  of  his  fellows.  To  this  tendency,  obvious  in  all  matters  of 
the  common  welfare,  is  due  the  peculiarity  of  American  literature, 
as  a  whole,  that  it  appeals,  in  a  marked  degree,  to  moods  or  states 
of  the  national  consciousness  or,  at  least,  to  the  consciousness  of 
large  bodies  of  the  people,  and  that  it  is  lacking  in  whatever 
appeals  only  to  a  select  or  special  class.  Our  prose  literature,  in 
particular,  consists  largely  of  what  may  be  described  as  the  ideas 
of  individuals  on  matters  of  wide  general  interest,  presented  for 
adoption,  as  a  series  of  resolutions  might  be,  to  the  assembly  of  the 
people.  It  is  with  matters  of  the  commonwealth  that  oar  prose 
literature  is  chiefly  concerned,  from  Cotton  Mather  and  Edwards 
to  Parkman  and  Curtis,— .the  religious,  moral,  political,  social,  and 
intellectual  conceptions  that  are  common  to  all,  and  upon  the  basis 
of  which  each  must  adjust  his  life.  Such  a  condition  of  literature 
is  natural  to  a  thorough-going  democracy.  It  has  its  strong 
points,  and  those  that  are  weaker.     It  is  less  original,  less  devoted 


I  ii 


•WW* 


XIV 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


to  the  search  for  abstract  beauty ;  it  is,  as  a  whole,  somewhat 
lacking  in  charm  j  but,  on  the  other  hand,  it  is  rich  in  ideas,  and 
strong  in  its  appeal  to  the  hearts  of  many,  rather  than  to  the 
special  tastes  or  foibles  of  the  few. 

American  prose  has  an  even  stronger  claim  on  our  attention  than 
American  verse.  And  this  for  two  reasons.  First,  American  prose 
originated  when  modern  prose  began,  at  the  very  end  of  the  seven- 
teenth and  the  beginning  of  the  eighteenth  century.  Before  that 
there  had  been  great  schools  of  poetry,  but  no  great  school  of 
prose.  Prose  style,  until  then,  was  unformed,  obscure,  whimsical, 
ponderous.  Prose  liad  had  its  great  triumphs,  but  they  were  sepa- 
rate, accidental, —  isolated,  in  large  measure,  from  the  course  of 
development.  It  was  Dryden,  Defoe,  Steele,  Addison,  Swift, —  the 
school  of  journalism,  of  free  speech,  of  debate  and  discussion,  that, 
breaking  away  from  the  medifeval  and  Renaissance  traditions,  made 
the  prose  of  England  what  it  is  ;  .tad  English  prose  and  English 
ideals  had  a  powerful  influence  on  the  development  of  prose  style 
in  France  and  Germany.  But  the  school  of  Steele  and  Addison 
and  Swift  had  its  followers  in  America,  as  well  as  on  the  continent 
of  Europe  ;  and  the  graceful,  well-ordered,  effective  prose  of  mod- 
ern times,  in  a  large  part  one  of  England's  many  contributions  to 
civilization,  we  learned  from  its  earliest  source.  It  was,  too,  natural 
to  our  intellectual  habits  and  our  political  and  social  institutions. 
The  Magnalia  is  the  only  folio  in  our  literature ;  and  from  Edwards 
and  Franklin  down  the  modern  ideal  of  prose  is  that  to  which  we 
have  instinctively  turned,  and  that  in  the  development  of  which 
we  have  had  our  share.  Indeed,  we  may  fairly  claim  that  in  prose 
style  Great  Britain,  France,  and  the  United  States  have  been  the 
most  fortunate  of  nations.  Germany,  for  instance,  is  still  flounder- 
ing in  the  mediaeval  fashions  of  which  England  rid  herself  two 
centuries  ago,  and  the  southern  languages,  though  aided  by  classic 
models,  are  still  beguiled  by  the  overwrought  enthusiasm  which 
swept  over  Europe  with  the  romantic  movement,  but  which  in 
Great  Britain,  France,  and  America  has  yielded  to  the  ideals  of 
vigorous  but  restrained  speech  which  characterizes  our  own  century. 

In  the  second  place,  prose  rather  than  poetry,  has  been  the  natural 
form  of  expression  in  American  literature,  —  a  form  wholly  conso- 
nant with  our  national  mood,  that  of  clear-headed,  well-ordered 


lWgt<Ml»<b..M*«r^ 


Mf^hi^jHaaih  iitfinw  iiioiif  v_ 


MBK4S*- 


,  somewhat 

ideas,  and 

lan  to  the 

ention  than 
rican  prose 
■  the  seven- 
Before  that 
;  school  of 
whimsical, 
were  sepa- 
e  course  of 
Swift, — the 
ission,  that, 
tions,  made 
nd  English 
prose  style 
id  Addison 
e  continent 
ise  of  mod- 
ributions  to 
too,  natural 
institutions, 
m  Edwards 
o  which  we 
It  of  which 
lat  in  prose 
^e  been  the 
ill  flounder- 
herself  two 
i  by  classic 
iasm  which 
It  which  in 
e  ideals  of 
wn  century, 
the  natural 
loUy  conso- 
ell-ordered 


If 
\ 


I  I 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


m^ 


aspiration.  The  part  of  literature  which  we  call  poetry  is  great 
in  its  importance,  but  very  limited  in  its  field.  Only  ideas  of  cer- 
tain sorts  can  be  expressed  by  it.  Its  production  is  d;;pendent,  to 
a  large  degree,  on  a  state  of  society  in  which  an  author  is  free  to  live 
a  life  of  resolute  leisure,  free  from  all  that  would  divert  his  fancy  or 
his  imagination  from  communion  with  his  dream-like  ideals.  Such 
opportunities  the  American  social  system  rarely  furnishes.  Our 
thoughts  have  been  of  necessity  immediately  concerned  with  the 
present,  with  what  has  been  done  and  is  to  be  done.  Prose  is 
therefore  our  characteristic  language, —  the  language  of  debate 
and  discussion  and  explanation,  of  the  statesman,  the  preacher, 
the  historian,  the  critic,  the  novelist. 

If,  then,  we  exclude  poetry,  and  consider  our  literature  only 
on  its  prose  side,  it  is  interesting  to  notice  that  it  holds  a  high  rank 
among  contemporary  literatures.  The  period  of  which  we  are 
speaking,  it  must  be  remembered,  is  that  of  tlie  last  two  centuries. 
During  that  period,  as  a  moment's  thought  will  show,  Holland 
has  produced  practically  nothing  that  has  been  widely  known 
beyond  its  own  borders,  and  the  same  may  be  said,  up  to 
very  recent  years,  of  the  Scandinavian  and  the  Slavic  nations. 
Italy,  Spain,  and  Portugal,  after  long  periods  of  literary  activity, 
have  contributed  scarcely  more  than  the  nations  just  mentioned. 
The  important  prose  writing  of  the  civilized  world  in  the  eighteenth 
and  nineteenth  centuries  is  to  be  found  in  the  two  branches  of 
English  literature,  in  French,  and  in  German.  To  rank  these  four 
products  is  neither  desirable  nor  possible,  but  it  may  be  s"'  ^,  on  the 
whole,  that  the  prose  literature  of  the  United  States,  \.  hile  falling 
distinctly  below  that  of  Great  Britain  and  that  of  France,  in  range 
and  power,  might  fairly  be  considered,  according  to  the  critic's 
tastes  and  standards,  as  superior  to  German  ;3rose  literature,  as,  on 
the  whole,  equal  to  it,  or,  perhaps,  as  slightl)  inferior  to  it. 

Leaving,  now,  the  comparative  merits  of  American  prose,  of 
which  it  has  been  necessary  to  say  so  much  only  because  they  are 
understood  so  little,  we  may  examine  our  prose  in  itself.  If  we  were 
to  judge  from  current  criticism  in  Great  Britain  and  the  United 
States,  we  might  believe  that  there  were  distinct  differences  in 
the  character  of  the  English  language  as  spoken  by  the  two  larger 
branches  of  the  race.     Ill-advised  British  writers  comment  freely 


l^ 


m 


'■i% 


XVI 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


!  I 


on  our  Americanisms,  and  we  take  a  certain  malicious  but  par- 
donable delight  in  the  pointing  out  of  Briticisms.  The  fact  with 
regard  to  this  fundamental  question,  it  neeii  hardly  be  said,  is  that 
literary  English  in  the  United  States  does  not  dilTer,  exce|)t  inlnites- 
imally,  from  that  in  Great  Britain.  Vulgar  English  in  t'le  United 
States,  of  course,  differs  in  many  minor  points  from  colloquial  and 
literary  English,  though,  as  our  country  is  younger,  as  education  is 
more  generally  diffused,  and  as  the  circulation  —  so  to  apeak  —  of 
population  from  district  to  district  is  vastly  greater,  these  minor 
points  of  difference  are  considerably  less  marked  than  the  corre- 
sponding jioints  of  difference  in  Great  Britain,  Our  colloquial 
English,  by  which  I  mean  the  current  speech  of  intelligent  and 
educated  people,  differs  only  slightly  from  that  ol  Great  Britain. 
These  instances  of  divergence  are  due,  sometimes,  to  survivals  of 
words  or  idioms  that  have  now  passed  out  of  the  British  vocabu- 
lary, sometimes  to  changes  that  have  occurred  in  Great  Britain 
within  the  last  century  or  two,  and  sometimes  to  similar  changes  in 
the  United  States, —  changes  which  the  diverse  elements  in  our 
population  and  the  rapidly  shifting  experiences  of  our  people 
have  made  peculiarly  fnting.  But,  as  has  been  said,  all  this 
touches  the  literary  language  only  in  an  infinitesimal  degree.  In 
the  works  of  the  authors  from  which  extracts  appear  in  this  volume 
it  is  as  hard  to  discover  any  real  divergence  in  point  of  idiom  from 
the  English  of  colonial  days  as  it  is  to  discover  a  divergence  from 
the  idioms  employed  in  the  works  of  modern  British  writers. 
Whatever  difference  is  felt  between  the  use  of  the  common  tongue 
in  American  and  in  British  literature  is  rarely  a  difference  of 
idiom,  and  can  usually  be  traced  to  a  characteristic  habit  of  Ameri- 
can speech  and  writing,  which  lies  at  the  basis  both  of  the  ubiqui- 
tous and  picturesque  American  slang,  and  of  a  corresponding 
quality  in  style,  —  a  tendency  tiiat  is,  to  treat  words  as  mere  in- 
struments, diverting  them,  if  occasion  requires,  to  unaccustomed 
but  valid  uses,  playing  easily,  as  it  were,  with  the  ordinary  forms 
of  speech,  as  if  we  were  so  sure  of  the  end  to  be  attained  that 
we  could  afford  to  reach  it  by  an  unconventional  path. 

As  regards  style,  it  would  be  unwise  to  add  to  the  excellent 
descriptions  of  the  various  periods  of  the  literature  of  the 
eighteenth  and  nineteenth  centuries  given  in  Mr.  Craik's  Eng- 


ii'iiMMjiiiiiiiiiiin  i«fiii^'fciia».jiiifa».««#M*raiWi«iW.i«'titiaii«w<iiitm^^ 


)us  but  par- 
he  fact  with 
said,  iii  that 
;|)t  inHnites- 
I  the  United 
lUoqiiial  and 
education  is 
r.peak  —  of 
these  minor 
1  the  corre- 
r  colloquial 
elligent  and 
reat  Britain, 
survivals  of 
tish  vocabu- 
■reat  Britain 
T  changes  in 
lents  in  our 
our  people 
sid,  all  this 
degree.  In 
this  volume 
f  idiom  from 
rgence  from 
tish  writers, 
iiiion  tongue 
iifference  of 
)it  of  Ameri- 
f  the  ubiqui- 
irresponding 
as  mere  in- 
laccustomed 
Unary  forms 
ttained  that 

he  excellent 
ture  of  the 
talk's  Eng- 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


XVII 


lish  Prose,  to  which  this  volume  is  a  necessary  complement.  *^ 
The  same  general  development,  due  to  the  same  general  social 
causes,  have  taken  place  during  these  periods  in  both  branches 
of  English  literature,  as  well  as  in  French  and  German  litera- 
ture. The  line  of  development  of  American  literature,  of  course, 
is  much  closer  to  that  of  British  literature  than  to  that  of  (ierman 
or  French,  partly  because  of  the  great  similarity  of  social  develop- 
ment, and  partly  because  it  was  in  England  that  we  long  found 
our  readiest-  literary  models.  The  succession  of  schools,  how- 
ever, has  not  been  precisely  the  same  in  both  countries.  It 
has  been  often  remarked  that  European  literary  movements  have 
been  felt  here  only  a  generation  later  than  in  the  lands  of  their 
origin.  It  would  be  truer  to  say  that  in  the  United  States  litera- 
ture and  style  have  been  mucli  less  affected  by  the  romantic  i.  ove- 
ment  than  in  England.  Indeed,  with  very  few  exceptions,  our 
literature  is  purely  pre-romantic,  purely  eighteenth  century  in  its 
simplicity  and  dignity,  in  its  appeal  to  the  judgment,  in  the  degree 
to  which  it  is  directed  to  the  intelligence  and  sympathy  of  the 
mass  of  the  people,  and  in  the  extent  to  which  it  is  written  for 
their  behoof,  or  comfort,  or  amusement.  This  is  partly  because 
the  social  centres  in  the  United  Siates  were  until  recently  com- 
pact, neighborly  little  places,  very  much  like  the  London  of  Queen 
Anne's  day.  It  is  also  becai:se  the  conditions  of  political  and 
social  life  long  tended  to  keep  the  citizen's  mind  peculiarly  alert, 
as  in  the  little  eighteenth-century  London,  to  matters  of  common 
interest  and  welfare. 

This  strong  tendency  to  what  may  be  called  citizen's  literature 
has  told  somewhat  against  the  more  aesthetic  qualities  of  style. 
We  have  had  few  "  stylists,"  men  who  staVe  all  on  the  turn  of  a 
phrase,  on  the  mere  appeal  of  words  to  the  ear.  Foe's  effort,  it  is 
true,  lay  sometimes  in  this  direction,  but,  as  a  rule,  he  impresses 
us,  in  his  prose,  far  more  by  the  substance  than  by  the  form  of  his 
composition,  and  it  is  hard  to  find,  certainly  among  the  authors 
represented  in  this  volume,  any  one  besides  Hawthorne  who  paid 
deliberate  attention  to  the  aDsthetic  elaboration  of  his  style,  and 
even  in  him  the  trait  was  free  from  the  morbidity  which  it  tends 
to  assume  in  later  European  prose.  The  characteristic  American 
style  if  the  plain  diction  of  Emerson,  Thoreau,  and  Lincoln,  — 


'I'm 


,4' 


-"■^'■wa'JivjiK'i. 


wmmmm 


it^ 


xviii 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


I4  I 


plain,  but  not  wilhout  its  noble  dignity  and  reserve.  It  is  only 
in  political  writing,  when  the  citizen  feels  that  national  issues  hang 
in  the  balance,  and  when  he  enunciates  the  principles  on  which  his 
ideal  of  freedom  rests,  that,  like  Jefferson  and  Webster,  he  allows 
himself  the  sonority  and  exaltation  of  style  that  are  then,  and 
then  only,  appropriate. 

In  prose  literature,  fortunately,  substance  is  more  than  style, 
and  American  literature,  so  weak  in  its  appeal  to  the  reader  on  the 
lookout  for  "  word  effects  "  alone,  is  slrong  in  the  substance  it  pre- 
sents to  tiie  healthy  miml,  and  in  the  broader  characteristics  of  that 
presentation.  These  broader  characteristics  in  American  prose 
literature  are,  to  my  mind,  resoluteness,  nobility,  simplicity,  and 
humor.  From  first  to  last,  from  Cotton  Mather  to  I'arkman,  there 
has  been  a  marked  tone  of  resoluteness  in  our  literature,  as  if  each 
writer  had  said,  "  This  that  I  utter  is  the  truth  as  I  see  it,  and  I 
am  determined  that  it  shall  reach  the  ears  of  my  ft  Hows,  and  pre- 
vail with  them."  The  attitude  is  also  one  full  of  nobility  and 
simplicity,  as  of  men  who  felt  the  importance  of  the  message  they 
bore,  and  the  need  of  casting  aside  all  mere  trickery  and  casu- 
istry in  addressing  their  great  and  varied  audience.  The  note  of 
humor,  too,  is  apparent,  from  Franklin  on.  It  is  the  old  mood 
of  Steele  and  Swift  and  Defoe,  and  of  the  England  that  laughed 
with  them  and  were  swayed  by  them,  —  a  mood  rather  serious  than 
merry,  striving  to  recover  a  manly  balance  of  thought  and  action  by 
contemplating  the  typical  absurdities  of  foolishness  and  prejudice. 

The  wholesome  value  of  such  qualities  as  these  has  been  some- 
what obscured  by  recent  literary  criticism,  born  of  a  romantic 
philosophy,  which  has  laid  stress  on  the  minor  niceties  and  subtle- 
ties of  style.  Even  our  own  taste  has  been  long  beguiled  by 
the  delicate  and  unfamiliar  beauty  of  foreign  tongues,  and  by  the 
more  imposing  mass  of  foreign  literatures,  which  it  has  been  the 
fashion  to  study  so  much  more  ardently  than  our  own.  But  we  are 
turning,  again,  as  if  impelled  by  a  deep  instinct,  to  our  native 
land.  We  are  learning  to  prire  its  history,  its  traditions,  its  civiliza- 
tion, its  scenery,  its  Ufe,  its  education,  its  language,  its  literature. 
Ours  is  the  lesser  brrnch  of  a  great  literature,  but  it  has  its  own 
virtues,  particularly  in  those  prose  forms  which  are  most  fitting  to 
the  national  genius,  and  they  are  worthy  cff  honor  and  praise. 

G.  R.  Carpenier 


KaBatfaBnafitiiMBwii^  mi'  iiJiwAiww 


^UniiniliiiiiiiWiiMWiw'riiillWilirifclHW".-- 


»mm 


It  is  only 
issues  liang 
)n  which  his 
!r,  he  allows 
e  then,  and 

than  style, 
;ader  on  the 
tance  it  pre- 
istics  of  that 
rican  prose 
iplicity,  and 
kman,  there 
•e,  as  if  each 
see  it,  and  I 
Ns,  and  pre- 
nobility  and 
iiessage  they 
y  and  casii- 
rhe  note  of 
le  old  mood 
that  laughed 
serious  than 
nd  action  by 
id  prejudice. 
;  been  some- 

a  romantic 
5  and  subtle- 
beguiled  by 
>,  and  by  the 
las  been  the 

But  we  are 
3  our  native 
s,  its  civiliza- 
its  literature. 
;  has  its  own 
lost  fitting  to 
i  praise. 
Darpenier 


COTTON    MATHER 

[Cotton  Mather  was  born  in  Boston,  Feb.  12,  1663.  The  son  of  Increase 
Mather,  minister  of  the  Second  Church  of  Boston,  the  grandson  of  John 
Cotton,  minister  of  the  First  Church  of  Boston,  and  of  Richard  Mather, 
minister  of  Dorchester,  he  inherited  with  his  iilood  the  most  ardent  traditions 
of  the  pristmc  theocracy  of  New  England.  Gra<iuated  at  Harvard  in  1678, 
he  became  two  years  later  assistant  to  his  father  at  the  Second  Church  in 
Boston.  Here  he  !  ached  all  his  life ;  he  never  travelled  a  hundred  miles 
from  his  birthplace.  He  died  on  the  day  after  his  sixty-fifth  birthday,  Pcb. 
13.  1728.] 

Throughout  his  life,  a  life  of  rare  restlessness  and  activity, 
Cotton  Mather  was  utterly  devoted  to  the  principles  which,  in  the 
times  of  his  father  and  of  his  grandparents,  had  prevailed  in  New 
England.  Until  his  active  life  was  well  begun,  indeed,  these  old 
principles  still  seemed  dominant.  Church  and  state,  the  fathers 
held,  should  alike  be  subject  to  the  rule  of 'ttie  Puritan  clergy. 
So  Cotton  Mather  fervently  believed  all  his  life ;  but,  before  his 
life  was  half  done.  New  England  had  ceased  to  believe  it.  More 
and  more  impotent,  more  and  more  misunderstood,  more  and 
more  hated,  he  waged  a  losing  fight,  tj  end  only  with  his  days, 
against  that  spirit  of  liberalism  which  from  his  time  to  ours  has 
been  the  chief  trait  of  his  native  region.  From  his  time  to  ours, 
then,  tradition  has  called  him  bigoted,  foolish,  wicked,  at  best 
grotesque.  Reformers  are  relentless  haters,  even  of  the  dead. 
In  sober  fact,  as  one  studies  him  now,  Cotton  Mather  reveals 
himself,  for  all  his  peculiarity,  as  the  most  completely  typical  of 
Boston  Puritans.  Almost  the  last  of  that  stern  race,  and  hardly 
ever  absent  from  the  capital  town  which  they  had  founded  and 
pervaded,  he  had  all  their  isolation,  all  their  prejudices,  all  their 
errors ;  b':t  he  had,  too,  all  their  devout  sincerity,  all  their  I'ervor, 
all  their  mystic  enthusiasm.  " 

In  the  course  of  his  life,  he  wrote  and  published  more  separate 
books  than  have  yet  come  from  the  pen  of  any  other  American  ; 
they  number  between  four  and   five  hundred.     Manv  of  these 


M^s^m^v^ 


AMERICAS  PROSE 


were  mere  sermons  or  tracts ;  !)Ut  at  least  one  was  a  consider- 
able folio.    'I'iiis,  the  most  notable  and  best  known  of  his  writings, 
is  the  Church  History  of  New  Knglan.l  entitled  Mni^naha  Chn.h 
Ammciina.     According   to  his  diary,  he  conceived  the  idea  of 
writing  it  in  1693  ;  it  was  published  in  1 702.     Whoever  knows  the 
history  of  New  iMigland  will  rccogni/e  these  dates  as  intervemng 
between  that  tragedy  of  Salem  witchcraft  which  broke  the  political 
power  of  the  clergy,  and  the  final  con-iuest  of  Harvard  College  the 
ancestral  semi.iary  of  Puritan  doctrine,  by  the  liberal  party  which 
has  dominated  Harvard  ev.r  since.     This  historical  circumstance 
throws  on  the  Mni^nalUi  a  light  which  has  been  too  little  remarked. 
'1-he  book  is  commonly  criticised  as  if  it  were  a  history  written 
in  the  modern  scientific  sjiirit.     Really  it  was  a  fervent  controver- 
sial elTort  n)  uphold  the  ideals  and  the  traditions  of  the  Furitan 
fathf-rs,  in  such  manner  as  snould  revive  their  failing  spirit  among 
those  whom  Cotton  Mather  ihought  their  ilegenerate  descendants. 
In  its, whole  conception  it  is  such  a  history  not  as  that  of  Thucydi- 
(les,  but  as  Plutarch's.     It  has  been  aptly  described  as  the  prose 
epic  of  New  Kngland   Puritanism.     In  an  epic  spirit  it  tells  the 
facts  of  New  iMigland  history ;  it  recounts  the  lives  of  the  early 
governors  and  ministers ;  it  describes  the  founding  of  Harvard 
College  :  it  sets  forth  the  doctrine  and  the  discipline  of  the  New 
^Cngland  churches ;  ami  it  details  the  attacks  of  the  devil  on  these 
strongholds  of  the  Lord,  particularly  in  the  forms  of  witchcraft 
and  of  Indian  warfare.     Throughout  it  is  animated  by  a  fervent 
desire  to  present  all  its  material  in  an  ideal  aspect ;  its  purpose  is 
not  «o  much  to  tell  the  truth  and  shame  the  devil  as  to  shame  him 
by  pointing  out  what  truth  ought  to  be.     As  a  record  of  fact,  then 
the  Ma.nalia  i^  untrustworthy  ;  as  a  record,  on  the  other  hand,  of 
Puritan  ideals  it  is  priceless.     Whoever  grows  thus  sympathetically 
to  know  it,  grows  more  and  more  to  feel  it  a  good  book  and  a 

brave  one.  ,        ,.    ,  ■         ■  . 

To  be  sure,  even  those  who  like  the  Masnaha  best  find  it  quaint. 
In  1702,  when  it  was  published,  John  Dryden  was  already  dead  ; 
and  the  literary  stvle  now  recognized  as  characteristic  of  eigh- 
teenth century  Isngland  was  fairly  established.  Cotton  Mather 
meanwhile,  in  that  Boston  which  one  of  his  German  contempora- 
ries mentioned  in  correspondence  as  "  a  remote  West  Indian  wil- 


"?&H(^  A 


iWa»^Mfti**iM-ifti!*'Btf^ii^'«i 


corrox  m.ither 


a  consider- 
his  writings, 
uilia  Chri^ti 
the  iilea  uf 
rr  knows  the 
s  intervening 
the  political 
I  College,  the 
I  party  which 
circumstance 
tie  remarked. 
istory  written 
lU  controver- 
f  the  Puritan 
spirit  among 
descendants. 
,t  of  Thucydi- 
.1  as  the  prose 
•it  it  tells  the 
s  of  the  early 
g  of  Harvard 
e  of  the  New 
devil  on  these 
of  witchcraft 
1  by  a  fervent 
its  purpose  is 
to  shame  him 
I  of  fact,  then, 
jther  hand,  of 
ympathetically 
book  and  a 

find  it  quaint, 
already  dead ; 
rist:c  of  eigh- 
;otton  Mather 
n  contempora- 
est  Indian  wil- 


derness," thought  and  wmte  after  fashions  which  Kurope  had  dis- 
carded for  above  a  generatiim.  i'ublished  in  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury, the  Afiii^na/id,  both  substantially  and  formally,  is  a  work  of 
the  school  of  Hurton,  or  of  Fuller,  or  of  whoever  else  maile  the 
quaintly  garrulous  folios  of  seventeenth  century  literature.  Fairly  to 
judge  it,  we  must  compare  it  not  with  its  contemporaries,  but  with 
its  predecessors.  It  has  the  fantastic  oddity,  the  fir-fetchc<l 
pedantry,  the  giant-winded  prolixity  of  the  days  when  folios  were 
normal.  It  has  meanwhile  positive  merits  of  style  which  have 
not  been  so  clearly  remembered.  It  is  never  obscure  ;  it  never 
lacks  spirit ;  and  it  possesses  a  rhythmical  dignity,  a  sustained  and 
sonorous  movement,  beyond  the  power  of  later  times.  These 
formal  traits,  as  (me  grows  to  know  them,  become  fascinating  ;  nor 
is  the  fascination  of  the  Afai^iiitlia  merely  a  matter  of  form.  Its 
ideals  of  life,  which  Cotton  Mather  tried  to  show  that  the  fathers 
of  New  Fngland  realized  on  earth,  stand  forth  by  and  by  as  heroic. 
Until  very  lately  the  struggle  between  the  aiistere  Calvinism  of 
which  he  was  the  champion,  and  the  devout  free  thought  with 
which  New  England  has  replaced  it  was  still  so  fresl.  that  no  one 
who  could  frankly  sympathize  with  either  side,  could  be  ([uite  fair 
to  the  other.  At  last,  however,  like  the  ohler  struggle  >  between 
Ciuelphs  and  Ghibellincs,  or  Cavaliers  and  Roundheads,  the  heart- 
breaking controversies  of  CJodfearing  New  England  are  fading, 
with  New  England  herself,  into  an  historic  past.  Few  men 
to-day,  of  any  creed,  believe  what  (Cotton  Mather  wrought  through 
his  whole  life  to  maintain  ;  and  had  he  not  failed,  the  hatred  of  his 
memory  might  still  inevitably  persist  in  all  its  freshness.  Hut 
to-day  theocracy  with  all  its  vices  and  all  its  heroisms,  is  as  dead 
as  the  gods  of  Olympus.  Regardless  of  the  cause  to  which  its 
epic  champion  devoted  his  life,  we  can  now  do  justice  to  his 
spirit  and  his  character.  So  judging  him,  not  only  as, a  writer,  but 
as  a  man,  one  grows  more  and  more  to  feel  that  whatever  his 
oddities,  whatever  his  faults  and  weaknesses,  he  belongs  among 
the  great  men  of  our  country.  In  the  sustained  faithfulness  of  his 
devotion  to  those  ideals  which  for  him  constituted  the  truth,  he 
was  a  brave  and  worthy  precursor  of  any  braveries  to  come. 

Barrett  Wendell 


^@Et88SS8BS? 


(I 


^^11  i; 

-it 
■ii 


¥ 


I 

I: 


i 


THK  CMDKCMKS  OK   NKVV   EN(;LANI) 

I  WHiiK  llic  ll'iini/cn  of  the  ("mkisiian  I<ki.ii;u)n,  flying  from  the 
Dejjraviitions  of  F.iiiof<t\  to  tlie  American  Slntnd ;  And,  assisted 
by  the  Holy  Author  of  that  Rdigion,  I  do,  with  all  Conscience  of 
Truth,  rciinired  tlu-nin  l>y  Iliin,  who  is  the  Truth  it  self,  report 
the  fl'iiu/i-i/u//)isf</tiysoi\\'\s  Infinite  Power,  Wisdom,  (loodness, 
and  Kaithfiilncss,  wherewith  His  Divine  l'roviden<e  hath  Jr*-aiiialed 
an  /ill/ill II  U'i/ifrnifxs. 

I  Relate  the  CciisiiierabU  Matters,  that  prochiccd  and  attended 
the  First  Settlement  of  Coloniks,  which  have  been  Renowned  for 
the  Degree  of  Kkkorm.viion,  Professed  and  Attained  by  Evauf^e/ical 
Churches,  erected  in  those  Eut/s  of  the  Earth  :  And  a  Ei'e/tt  being 
thus  prepared,  I  proceetl  imto  a  Relation  of  the  Consuierable 
Matters  which  have  been  actetl  thereupon. 

I  fiVst  introduce  the  Actors,  that  have,  in  a  more  exemplary 
manner  served  those  Colonies ;  and  give  Remarkable  Occurrences, 
in  the  exemplary  Livks  of  many  Magistrates,  and  of  more  Minis- 
ters, who  so  Lived,  as  to  leave  unto  Posterity,  Examples  worthy 
of  Everlasting  Remembrance. 

1  add  hereunto,  the  Notables  of  the  only  Protestant  University, 
that  ever  shone  in  that  Hemisphere  of  the  New  World ;  with  par- 
ticular Instances  of  Criolians,  in  our  Biof-raphy,  provoking  the 
vihole  World,  with  vertuous  Objects  of  Emulation. 

I  introduce  then,  the  Actions  o{  a  more  Eminent  Import- n-e, 
that  have  signalized  those  Colonies ;  Whether  the  Establishnuuis, 
directed  by  their  Synods ;  with  a  Rich  Variety  of  Synodical  and 
Ecclesiastical  Determinations;  or,  the  Disturbances,  with  which 
they  have  been  from  all  sorts  of  Temptations  and  Enemies  Tem- 
pestuated  ;  and  the  Methods  by  which  they  have  still  weathered 
out  each  Horrible  Tempest. 

And  into  the  midst  of  these  Actions,  I  interpose  an  entire  Book, 
wherein  there  is,  with  all  possible  Veracity,  a  Collection  made,  of 
Memorable  Occurrences,  and  amazing  Judgments  and  Mercies, 
befalling  many  particular  Persons  among  the  People  of  Ne^v- 
England. 

Let  my  Readers  expect  all  that  I  have  promised  them,  in  this 


*^ 


•vjifeww  irfi  iiw»n»i«wimTwimm>i 


mm 


mn 


COTTOiW  MATHER 


5 


ng  from  iIk" 
Lijil,  assisted 
jiisricnce  of 
t  self,  report 
n,  (loodncss, 
h  Imtdiiitfii     ' 

ind  attended 
.enowned  for 

Ei'iingf/ifii/ 
1  /'/>/</  being 

ConsUeraNe 

rp  exemplary 
Occurrencfs, 
more  Minis- 

\mples  worthy 

///  University, 
■U;  with  par- 
irovoking  the 

Import',  D'  c, 
taNishnuiJu 

Synodical  and 
with  which 
nenties  Tem- 

till  weathered 

n  entire  Book, 

ction  made,  of 

and  Mercies, 

ople  of  AWf- 

1  them,  in  this 


JUll of  Fair;  and  it  nwy  lie  that  they  will  find  themselves  enter- 
tained witli  yet  many  other  i'assaj^es,  above  and  beyond  thnr  Kx- 
pectation,  deserving  likewise  a  room  in  History ;  In  all  which,  thc'c 
will  be  notliing,  but  the  Author's  loo  mean  way  of  |)re|)aring  so 
great  iOiiti-rtainments,  tu  Reproach  the  Invitation. 

S  3.  Tt  is  the  History  of  these  Proifstavis,  that  is  here  at- 
tempted ;  i'KoiKsiANrs  that  hif^hly  honoured  and  affected  The 
Chttrih  of  Knci^ni),  and  humbly  I'elition  to  be  a  Part  of  it; 
"i'i>:*  l>v  the  Mistake  of  a  few  powerful  lhflhr,n,  driven  to  seek  a 
phue  for  me  Kxcrcise  of  tlie  Protestant  Religion,  according  to  the 
Light  of  their  Consciences,  in  the  Desarts  of  America.  And  in 
this  Attemi)t  I  have  proposeil,  not  only  to  preserve  and  secure 
the  Interest  of  Re/if^ion,  in  the  C'hiirches  of  that  little  Country 
Nhw-Kn(;i^\ni),  so  far  as  the  Ix)r(l  Jesus  Christ  may  please  to  HIess 
it  for  that  End,  but  also  to  offer  \mto  the  Churches  of  the  Refor- 
mation, abroad  in  the  Wor'd,  some  small  Miinoria/s,  that  may  be 
serviceable  unto  the  Designs  of  Reformation,  whereto,  I  believe, 
they  are  cpiickly  to  be  awakened.  ...  In  short,  The  First  Age 
was  the  Golden  //.i,r  .•  To  return  unto  That,  will  make  a  Man  a 
Protestant,  and  I  may  add,  a  Puritan.  'Tis  possible,  that  our  Lord 
Jesus  Christ  carried  some  Thousands  of  Reformers  into  the  Retire- 
ments of  an  American  Desart,  on  purpose,  that,  with  an  oppor- 
timity  granted  unto  many  of  his  Faithful  Sen'ants,  to  enjoy  the 
])reci()us  Liberty  of  their  Ministry,  tho'  in  the  midst  of  many 
Temptations  all  their  days,  He  might  there,  To  them  first,  and 
then  By  them,  give  a  Specimen  of  many  Cood  Things,  which  He 
would  have  His  (Churches  elsewhere  aspire  and  arise  unto  :  And 
This  being  done.  He  knows  not  whether  there  be  not  Ail  done, 
that  Nem- England  wa^  planted  for;  and  v.hether  the  IMantation 
may  not,  soon  after  this,  Come  to  Nothing.  Upon  that  Expres- 
"sion  in  the  Sacred  Scripture,  Cast  the  unprofitable  Servant  into 
Outer  Darkness,  it  hath  been  imagined  by  some,  That  the  Re- 
giones  Extern  of  America,  are  the  Tenebrce  Exteriores,  which  the 
Unprofitable  are  there  condemned  unto.  No  doubt,  the  Authors 
of  those  Ecclesiastical  Impositions  and  Severities,  which  drove  the 
English  Christians  into  the  Dark  Regions  of  America,  esteemed 
those  Christians  to  be  a  very  unprofitable  sort  of  Creatures.    But 


i 


6  AMERICAX  PROSE 

behold,  ye  European  Churches,  There  are  GoMcii  Caiuilesdckx 
[more  than  twice  Seven  times  Sei<en!'\  in  the  tniiist  of  this  Outer 
Darkness;  Unto  the  upright  Children  of  Abraham,  hero  hath 
arisen  Li[:;lit  in  Darkiu  fx.  And  let  us  humbly  speak  it,  it  shall  be 
Profitable  for  yoa  to  consider  tlie  Light,  which  from  the  midst  of 
this  Outer  Darhne^^  is  now  to  be  Darted  over  unto  the  other  side 
of  the  Athmtick  Ocean.  But  we  must  therewithal  ask  your  Prayers, 
that  these  Golden  Candlesticks  may  not  quickly  be  Removed  out  of 
their  place ! 

\Afagnalia  Christi  .linericana  ;  or,  the  EccUsiaslical  Ilislory  of  Nnv-Fiig- 
land.fiom  Its  /■'irsl  Planting  in  the  Year  1620  unto  the  Year  0/  our  Lord, 
l6gS.  by  the  Reverend  and  Learned  Cotton  Mather,  M.  A.  And  Pastor  of 
ths  North  Church  in  Hoston,  New-England.  London:  Printed  for  Thomas 
Parkhurst,  at  tlie  Hible  and  Three  Crowns  in  Cheapside,  1702,  General  Intro- 
duction, sections  I,  3.] 


THE  PHANTOM   SHIP 

Behold,  a  Fourth  Colony  oi  Ne^v- English  Christians,  in  a  manner 
stoln  into  the  World,  and  a  Colony,  indeed,  constellated  with  many 
Stars  of  the  Eirst  Magnitude.  Tiie  Colony  was  under  the  Conduct 
of  as  Holy,  and  as  Prudent,  and  as  Genteel  Persons  as  most  that 
ever  visited  these  Nooks  of  America ;  and  yet  these  too  were 
Try'd  with  very  humbling  Circumstances. 

Being  Londoners,  or  Merchants,  and  Men  of  Traffick  and  Busi- 
ness, their  Design  was  in  a  manner  wholly  to  apply  themselves 
unto  Trade ;  but  the  Design  failing,  they  found  their  great  Estates 
to  sink  so  fast,  that  they  must  quickly  do  something.  Whereupon  in 
the  Year  1646  gathering  together  almost  all  the  Strength  which  was 
left  'em,  they  Built  one  Ship  more,  which  they  fraighted  for  Eng- 
land w'xih  the  best  part  of  their  Tradable  Flstates;  and  sundry  of 
their  Eminent  I'ersons  Embarked  themselves  in  her  for  the  Voyage. 
But,  alas,  the  Sliip  was  never  after  heard  of  !  She  foundred  in  the 
Sea ;  and  in  her  were  lost,  not  only  the  //opes  of  their  future  'i  lade, 
but  also  the  Lives  of  several  Excellent  Persons,  as  well  as  divers 
Manusciipts  of  some  great  Men  in  the  Country,  sent  over  for  the 
Service  of  the  Church,  which  were  now  buried  in  the  Ocean.  The 
fuller  Story  of  that  grievous  Matter,  let  the  Reader  with  a  just 


..^*.v. 


aMMMi 


AtiuiUsticks 
this  OiiUr 
,  here  halh 
I,  it  shall  be 
lie  midst  of 
e  other  side 
rour  Prayers, 
noved  out  of 

y  of  Neiv-Eiig- 
r  of  our  Lord, 
Anil  I'astor  of 
ed  for  Thomas 
General  Intto- 


is,  in  a  nianner 
tied  with  many 
;r  the  Conduct 
s  as  most  that 
these  too  were 

iffick  and  Wnsi- 

y  themselves 

great  Kstates 

Whereupon  in 

igth  which  was 

ited  for  Eug- 

and  sundry  of 

for  the  Voyage. 

oundred  in  the 

eir  future  'iinde, 

well  as  divers 

,ent  over  for  the 

he  Ocean.    The 

ider  with  a  just 


COTTON  MATHPR  7 

Astonishment  accept  from  the  I'en  of  the  Reverend  Person,  wlio 
is  now  the  Pastor  of  New-Haven.  I  wrote  unto  him  for  it,  and 
was  thus  Answered. 

"  Rkvekend  and  Dear  Sir,  In  Compliance  with  your  Desires, 
I  now  give  you  the  Relation  of  that  Apparition  of  a  Ship  in  the 
Air,  which  I  have  received  from  the  most  Credible,  Judicious  and 
Curious  Surviving  Observers  of  it. 

"  In  the  Year  1647  besides  much  other  Lading,  a  far  more  Rich 

Treasure  of  Passengers,  (Five  or  Six  of  which  were  Persons  of 

chief  Note  and  Worth  in  New-Haven)  put  themselves  on  Board 

a  Neiv  Ship,  built  at  Rhode- Island,  of  about  150  Tuns ;    but  so 

walty,  that  the  Master,  {Lamherton)  often  said  she  would  prove 

their  (Irave.     In  the  Month  of  January,  cutting  their  way  thro' 

much  Ice,  on  which  they  were  accompanied  with  the  Reverend 

Mr.  Davenport,  besides  many  other  Friends,  with  many  Fears,  as 

well  as  Prayers  and  Tears,  they  set  Sail.     Mr.  Davenport  in  Prayer 

with  an  observable  Emphasis  used  these  Words,  Lord,  if  it  />e  thy 

pleasure  to  bury  these  our  Friends  in  the  bottom  of  the  Sea,  they 

are  thine;  save  them!    Th»  Spring  following  no  Tidings  of  these 

Friends  arrived  with  the  Ships  from  England :  New-Haven^ s  Heart 

began  to  fail  her :    This  put  the  Godly  People  on  much  Prayer, 

both  Publick  and  Private,  That  the  Lord  would  {if  it  was  his 

Pleasure)  let  them  hear  what  he  had  done  with  their  dear  Friends, 

and  prepare  them  with  a  suitable  Submission  to  his  Holy  Will.    In 

June  next  ensuing,  a  great  Thunder-Storm  arose  out  of  the  North- 

West ;  after  which,  (the  Hemisphere  being  serene)  about  an  hour 

before  Sun-set  a  Ship  of  like  Dimensions  with  the  aforesaid,  with 

her  Canvas  and  Colours  abroad  (tho'  the  Wind  Northernly)  ap- 

i  peared  in  the  Air  coming  up  from  our  Harbour's  Mouth,  which 

lyes  Southward  from  the  Town,  seemingly  with  her  Sails  filled 

under  a  fresh  Gale,  holding  her  Course  North,  and  continuing 

under  Observation,  Sailing  against  the  Wind  for  the  space  of  half 

Ian  Hour.     Many  were  drawn  to  behold  this  great  Work  of  God  j 

I  yea,  the  very  Children  cry'd  out.  There's  a  Brave  Ship  !    At  length, 

jcrouding  up  as  far  as  there  is  usually  Water  sufficient  for  such  a 

IVessel,  and  so  near  some  of  the  Spectators  as  that  they  imagined 

la  Man  might  hurl  a  Stone  on  Board  her,  her  Maintop  seem'd  to 


fiiirHiBMri 


ff 


w  llMlr«M|Ma^**K '^gi^ 


H 


m 


II   i 


8 


AAfEKrCAN  PKOSE 


be  blown  off,  but  left  hanging  in  the  Shrouds ;  then  her  Mtssfn- 
top  ■  then  all  her  Mastitis  seemed  blown  away  by  the  Board  : 
Quickly  after  the  Hulk  brought  into  a  Careen,  she  overset,  and  so 
vanished  into  a  snioaky  Cloud,  which  in  some  time  dissipated,  leav- 
ing as  everywhere  else,  a  clear  Air.  The  admiring  Spectators  could 
distinguish  the  several  Colours  of  each  Part,  the  Principal  Rigmg, 
and  such  Proportions,  as  caused  not  only  the  generality  of  Persons 
to  say.  This  was  the  Mould  of  their  Ship,  and  thus  was  her  Tra^ick 
End:  But  Mr.  Davenport  also  in  publick  declared  to  this  Effect, 
That  God  had  condescended Jor  the  quieting  of  their  afflicted  Spirits, 
this  Extraordinarv  Account  of  his  Sovereign  Disposal  of  those  for 
whom  so  many  Fervent  Prayers  ivere  made  continually.    Thus  I 

am,  Sir,  , .    ^ 

Your  Humble  Servant, 

James  Pieriont. 

Reader,  There  being  yet  living  so  many  Credible  Gentlemen, 
that  were  Eye-Witnesses  of  this  Wonderful  Thing,  I  venture  to 
Publish  it  for  a  thing  as  undoubted,  as  'tis  wonderful.      ■ 

[Magnaiia,  book  i, "  Antiquities,  or  Field  prepared  for  Considerable  Thing!, 
lo  be  Acted  thereupon,"  chapter  6,  section  6.] 

THE  LAST   DAYS  OF  THEOPHILUS   EATON 

His  Eldest  Son  he  maintained  at  the  College  until  he  proceeded 
Master  of  Arts;  and  he  was  indeed  the  Son  of  his  Vows,  and 
a  Son  of  great  /fofies.     But  a  severe  C.:tarrh  diverted  this  Young 
Genthraan  from  the  Work  of  the  Ministry  whereto  his  Father  had 
once  devoted  him  ,  and  a  Malignant  Fever  then  raging  m  those 
Parts  of  the  Country,  carried  off  him  with  his  wife  within  Two 
or  Throe  Days  of  one  another.     This  was  counted  the  sorest 
of  all  the  Trials  that  ever  befel  his  Father  in  the  Days  of  the 
Years  of  his  Pilgrimage  ;  but  he  bore  it  with  a  Patience  and  Com- 
posure of  «r.irit  which  was  truly  admirable.     His  dying  Son  look  d 
.     earnestly  on  hin,,  and   said,  Sir,  What  shall  we  do!     Whereto 
with  a  well-ordtred  Countenance,  he  replied,  Look  up  to  God. 
And  when  he  passed  by  his  Daughter  drowned  in  Tears  on  this 
Occasion,  to  her  he  said,  Remember  the  Sixth  Commandment, 


'#^»^-■ 


■fe«i«li«t 


miiiiPNiMPPp 


COTTOI-  MATHER 


n  her  Missen- 
ly  the    Board  : 
)ver»et,  and  so 
issipated,  leav- 
pectators  could 
•incipal  Riging, 
ility  of  Persons 
HIS  her  Tragick 
.  to  this  Effect, 
afflicted  Spirits, 
nal  of  those  for 
lually.    Thus  I 

lES   PlERl-ONT. 

ible  Gentlemen, 
ng,  I  venture  to 
rful     ■ 
Considerable  Things 


EATON 

»til  he  proceeded 
if  his  Vows,  and 
erted  this  Young 
to  his  Father  had 

raging  in  those 
wife  within  Two 
lunted  the  sorest 

tlie  Days  of  the 
alienee  and  Com- 

dying  Son  look'd 
do!  Whereto, 
look  up  to  God! 

in  Tears  on  this 
Commandment, 


Hurt  not  your  self  ivith  Immoderate  Grief ;  I^einember  Job,  who 
said,  The  Lord  hath  given,  and  the  Lord  hatii  taken  away.  Blessed 
be  the  Name  of  the  Lord  !  You  may  mar/;  what  a  Note  the  Spirit 
of  God  put  upon  it;  in  all  this  yi>/^  sinned  not,  nor  charged  God 
foolishly  :  God  accounts  it  a  charging  of  him  foo/is/i/y,  when  we 
don't  su/tmit  unto  his  Wiil  patiently.  Accordingly  he  now  gov- 
erned hiinse'f  as  one  that  had  attaiijjd  unto  the  Rule  of  Weeping 
as  if  we  wept  not;  for  it  being  the  Lord's  Day,  he  repaired  unto 
the  Church  in  the  Afternoon,  as  he  had  been  there  in  the  Fore- 
noon, though  he  was  never  like  to  see  his  Dearest  Son  alive  any 
more  in  this  World.  And  though  before  the  First  Prayer  began, 
a  Messenger  came  to  prevent  Mr,  Davenport's  jiraying  for  the 
Sick  Person,  who  was  now  Dead,  yet  his  Affectionate  Father 
alter'd  not  iiis  Course,  but  Wrote  after  the  Preacher  as  formerly ; 
and  when  he  came  Home  he  held  on  his  former  Metiiods  of 
Divine  Worship  in  his  Family,  not  for  the  Kxcuse  of  Aaron,  omit- 
ting any  thing  in  the  Service  of  God.  In  like  sort,  when  the 
People  had  been  at  the  Solemn  Interment  of  this  his  Worthy  Son, 
he  did  with  a  very  Unpassionatc  Aspect  and  Carriage  then  say. 
Friends,  I  thank  you  all  for  your  Lo7>e  and  Help,  and  for  this 
Testimony  of  Respect  unto  me  and  mine :  The  Lord  hath  given, 
and  the  Lord  hath  taken;  blessed  he  the  Name  of  the  Lord! 
Nevertheless,  retiring  hereupon  into  the  Chamber  where  his 
Daughter  then  lay  Sick,  some  Tears  were  observed  falling  from 
him  while  he  uttered  these  Words,  There  is  a  difference  between 
a  sullen  Silence  or  a  stupid  Senselessness  under  the  Hand  of  God, 
and  a  Child-like  Submission  thereunto. 

Thus  continually  he,  for  about  a  Score  of  Years,  was  the  Glory 
and  Pillar  of  New-Hai'en  Colony.  He  would  often  say.  Some 
count  it  a  great  matter  to  Die  well,  but  L  am  sure  'tis  a  great  mat- 
ter to  I,ive  well.  All  our  Care  should  be  while  we  have  our  Life 
to  use  it  ive!',  and  so  when  Death  puts  an  end  unto  that,  //  mill 
put  an  end  unto  all  our  Cares.  But  having  Excellently  managed 
his  Care  to  Live  well,  God  would  have  him  to  Die  well,  v/ithout 
any  room  or  time  then  given  to  take  any  Care  at  all ;  for  he 
enjoyed  a  Death  sudden  to  every  one  but  himself !  Having  Wor- 
shipped God  with  his  Family  after  his  usual  manner,  and  upon 
some  Occasion  with  much  Solemnity  charged  all  the  Family  to 


lO  AMERICAN  PKOSE 

carry  it  well  unto  their  Mistress  who  was  now  confined  by  Sick- 
ness he  Supp'd,  and  then  took  a  turn  or  two  abroad  for  his  Medi- 
tations. After  that  he  came  in  to  bid  his  Wife  Good-night,  before 
he  left  her  with  her  Watchers;  which  when  he  did,  she  said, 
Methinks  you  look  sad!  Whereto  he  reply'd.  The  merences 
risen  in  the  Church  of  Hartford  make  me  so;  she  then  added. 
Let  us  e'en  go  back  to  our  Native  Country  again  ;  to  which  he 
answered.  You  may,  [and  so  5he  did]  f>ut  I  shall  Di3  here.  This 
was  the  last  Word  that  ever  she  heard  him  speak;  for  now  retir- 
ing unto  his  Lodging  in  another  Chamber,  he  was  overheard 
about  midnight  fetching  a  Groan;  and  unto  one,  sent  in  presently 
to  enquire  how  he  did,  he  answered  the  Enquiry  with  only  saying, 
Ver\  111!  And  without  saying  any  more,  he  fell  asleep  in  Jesus: 
In  the  Yea'  1657  loosing  Anchor  from  New-Haven  for  the  better. 


Sedes,  ubi  Fata;  Quietas 


Ostendnnt. 


Now  let  his  Gravestone  wear  at  least  the  following 

EPITAPH 

New-Englan  o's  Glory,  full  of  Warmth  and  T  ,ight, 
Stole  away  (finrfsaid  nothing)  in  the  Night. 

{Magnalia,  book  ii.  "  Lives  of  the  Governours.  and  the  Names  of  the  Magis- 
trates, that  have  been  Shields  unto  the  Churches  of  New  England  (until  the 
Year  1686),"  chapter  9,  sections  9  and  10.] 


THE  PIETY  OF  THOMAS   SHEPARD 

As  he  was  a  very  Studious  Person,  and  a  very  lively  Preacher ; 
and  one  who  therefore  took  great  Pains  in  his  Preparations  for 
his  publick  Labours,  which  Preparations  he  would  usually  fimsh 
on  Saturday,  by  two  a  Clock  in  the  Afternoon ;  with  Respect 
whereunto  he  once  used  these  Words,  God  will  curse  that  Man's 
Labours,  that  lumbers  up  and  down  in  the  World  all  the  Week,  and 
then  upon  Saturday  in  the  Afternoon  goes  to  his  Study  ;  whereas 
God  knows,  that  Time  jvere  little  enough  to  pray  in  and  weep  in, 
and  get  his  Heart  into  a  fit  Frame  for  the  Duties  of  the  approack- 

■■#     . 


COTTON  MATHER 


II 


mfined  by  Sick- 
id  for  his  Medi- 
wd-night,  before 
:  did,  she  said, 
The  Differences 
ihe  then  added, 
;//  to  which  he 
Dl3  here.  This 
: ;  for  now  retir- 
was  overheard 
sent  in  presently 
with  only  saying, 
asleep  in  Jesus: 
f«  for  the  better. 

f/V7J         • 


ing  Sabbath.  So  the  Character  of  his  daily  Conversation,  was  A 
Trembling  Walk  with  God.  Now  to  take  true  Measures  of  his 
Conversation,  one  of  the  best  Glasses  that  can  be  used,  is  the 
Diary,  wherein  he  did  himself  keep  the  Remembrances  of  many 
Remarkablcs  that  passed  betwixt  his  God  and  himself;  who  were 
indeed  A  sufficient  Theatre  to  one  another.  It  would  give  some 
Inequality  to  this  Part  of  our  Church  History,  if  all  the  Holy 
Memoirs  left  in  the  Private  Writings  of  this  Walker  tvith  God, 
sliould  here  be  Transcribed  :  But  I  will  single  out  from  thence  a 
few  Passages,  which  might  be  more  agreeibly  and  profitably  ex- 
posed unto  the  World. 

[Magnalia,hi.>QV  iii,  "  Lives  of  Many  Reverend,  Learned,  and  Holy  Divines 
(arriving  such  from  Europe  to  America)  by  whose  Evangelical  Ministry  the 
Churches  of  New-England  have  been  Illuminated,"  chapter  5,  section  17.] 


img 


</t,,ght. 


Names  of  the  Magis- 
V  England  (until  the 


ARD 

y  lively  Preacher ; 

Preparations,  for 
luld  usually  finish 
n;  with  Respect 
curse  that  Man's 

all  the  Week,  and 
s  Study  ;  whereas 
y  in  and  weep  in, 
s  of  the  approach- 


JOHN   ELIOT  AND  THE   INDIAN  LANGUAGE 

The  First  Step  which  he  judg'd  necessary  now  to  be  taken  by 
him,  was  to  learn  the  Indian  Language ;  for  he  saw  them  so  stupid 
and  senseless,  that  they  would  never  do  so  much  as  enquire  after 
the  Religion  of  the  Strangers  now  come  into  their  Country,  much 
less  would  they  so  far  imitate  us,  as  to  leave  off  their  beasdy  way 
of  living,  that  they  might  be  Partakers  of  any  Spiritual  Advantage 
by  us :  Unless  we  could  first  address  them  in  a  Language  of  their 
own.  Behold,  new  Difficulties  to  be  surmounted  by  our  indefati- 
gable Eliot!  He  hires  a  Native  to  teach  him  this  exotick  Lan- 
guage, and  with  a  laborious  Care  and  Skill,  reduces  it  into  a 
Grammar  which  afterwards  he  published.  There  is  a  letter  or 
two  of  our  Alphabet,  which  the  Indians  never  had  in  theirs;  tho' 
there  were  enough  of  the  Dog  in  their  Temper,  there  can  scarce 
be  found  an  R  in  their  Language;  (any  more  than  in  the  Language 
of  the  Chinese,  or  of  the  Greenlanders)  save  that  the  Indians  to 
the  Northward,  who  have  a  peculiar  Dialect,  pronounce  an  R 
wliere  an  N  is  pronounced  by  our  Indians  ;  but  if  their  Alphabat 
be  short,  I  am  sure  the  Words  composed  of  it  are  long  enough  to 
tire  the  Patience  of  any  Scholar  in  the  World;  they  are  Sesquipe- 
dalia  Verba,  of  which  their  Linguo  is  composed  ;  one  would  think, 


IS 


\^., 


13 


AMERICAN  PROi-E 


they  had  been  growing  ever  siiice  Babel,  unto  the  Dimensions  to 
wliich  they  had  now  extended.  For  instance,  if  my  Reader  will 
count  how  many  Letters  there  are  in  this  one  \^oxA,  Numma- 
tachekodtaiitamooon^dniinnonash,  when  he  has  done,  for  his  Re- 
ward I'll  tell  liini,  it  signifies  no  more  in  English,  than  our  Lusts, 
and  if  I  were  to  translate,  our  Loves ;  it  must  be  nothing  shorter 
than  Noowoinantammoooiikanunonnash,  Or,  to  give  my  Reader 
a  longer  Word  than  either  of  these,  Kummogkodonattoottummoo- 
etitcaougannunnonash,  is  in  English,  Our  Question :  But  I  pray. 
Sir,  count  the  Letters  !  Nor  do  we  find  in  all  this  language  the 
least  Affinity  to,  or  Derivation  from  any  European  Speech  that 
we  are  acquainted  with.  I  know  not  what  thoughts  it  will  pro- 
duce in  my  Reader,  when  I  inform  him,  that  once  finding  that 
the  Daemons  in  a  possessed  young  Woman,  understood  the  Latin 
and  Greek  and  Hebrew  Languages,  my  Curiosity  led  me  to  make 
Trial  of  this  Indian  Language,  and  the  Dcemons  did  seem  as  if 
they  did  not  understand  it.  This  tedious  Language  our  Eliot  (the 
Anagram  of  whose  Name  was  Toile)  quickly  became  a  Master 
of;  he  employ 'd  a  pregnant  and  witty  Indian,  who  also  spoke 
English  well,  for  his  Assistance  in  it ;  and  compiling  some  Dis- 
courses by  his  Help,  he  would  single  out  a  Word,  a  Noun,  a  Verb, 
and  pursue  it  through  all  its  Variations :  Having  finished  his 
Grammar,  at  the  close  he  writes.  Prayers  and  Pains  thrd"  Faith 
in  Christ  Jesus  will  do  any  thing!  And  being  by  his  Prayers  and 
Pains  thus  furnished,  he  set  himself  in  the  Year  1646  to  preach 
the  Gospel  of  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  among  these  Desolate  Out- 
casts. 

[Magnalia,  book  iii,  part  3,  part  3.] 


■■smmsmamar^isss 


Dimensions  to 
my  Reader  will 
Vord,  Numma- 
ine,  for  his  Re- 
Ll.an  our  Lusts, 
nothing  shorter 
i;ive  my  Reader 
gnattoottummoo- 
m:  But  I  pray, 
s  language  the 
•an  Speech  that 
ights  it  will  pro- 
nce  finding  that 
rstood  the  Latin 
led  me  to  make 

did  seem  as  if 
ge  our  Eliot  (the 
)ecame  a  Master 

who  also  spoke 
piling  some  Dis- 
,  a  Noun,  a  Verb, 
zing  finished  his 
Pains  thro'  Faith 
y  his  Prayers  and 
r  1646  to  preach 
se  Desolate  Out- 


JONATHAN    EDWARDS 

[Jonathan  Edwards  was  born,  of  ministerial  stock,  at  East  Windsor,  Conn., 
Oi-t.  5,  1703,  thesume  year  as  John  Wesley.  For  the  greater  part  of  his  life 
he  was  a  parish  minister  of  immense  influence  with  his  congregation.  He 
was  settled  at  Northampton,  Mass.,  in  1727,  where  he  remained  until  1 750. 
Dismissed  fur  his  views  on  qualilici«tions  for  full  communion,  he  was  shortly 
called  to  .Stockbridge,  where  he  remained  six  years.  But  he  was  also  known, 
far  beyond  the  borders  of  his  parish  as  a  preacher,  and  in  the  latter  half  of 
his  life  he  became  famous  at  home  and  abroad  by  his  works  on  metaphysical 
theology,  particularly  7Ae  Freedom  of  the  Will,  1754,  and  Original  Sin,  1758. 
In  1757  he  was  called  to  Princeton  as  President,  but  died  the  next  year,  on 
March  22.  His  metaphysics  and  theology,  and  his  powers  as  a  logician,  mat- 
ters a  little  aside  from  the  following  study,  are  excellently  presented  in  a  Life 
by  Rev.  A.  V.  G.  Allen,  Boston,  1 89 1.  The  standard  text  of  his  works,  which 
has  been  followed  in  the  extracts,  is  that  of  the  so-called  Worcester  edition  of 
1809,  reprinted  in  New  York  in  1847.]  "'      !    ■       ■>         ■-  ,  v 

Jonathan  Edward.s  and  Benjamin  Franklin  are  like  enormous 
trees  (say  a  pine  and  an  oak),  which  may  be  seen  from  a  great 
distance  dominating  the  scrubby,  homely,  second  growth  of  our 
provincial  literature.  They  make  an  ill-assorted  pair,  —  the  cheery 
man  of  the  world  and  the  intense  man  of  God,  —  but  they  owe 
their  preeminence  to  the  same  quality.  Franklin,  it  is  true,  is 
remarkable  for  his  unfailing  common  sense,  a  quality  of  which 
Edwards  had  not  very  much,  his  keenest  sense  being  rather  un- 
common. But  it  was  not  his  common  sense,  but  the  cause  of  his 
common  sense,  namely,  his  faculty  of  realization,  that  made  Frank- 
lin eminent.  This  faculty  is  rare  among  men,  but  it  was  possessed 
by  Franklin  to  a  great  degree.  His  perceptions  of  his  surroundings 
—  material,  intellectual,  personal,  social,  political  —  had  power  to 
affect  his  mind  and  action.  He  took  real  account  of  his  circum- 
stances. 

Now  this  power  of  realization  was  the  one  thing  which  makes 
Edwards  remarkable  in  literature.     It  is  true  that  he  was  very 


!■>; 


Ai 


t.'^ 


vjiaaMiiT 


\^  f 


-apaaxaaaa. 


M 


AMERIC^iN  PROSE 


devout,  very  logical,  very  hard-working,  but  so  were  many  other 
men  of  his  time.  The  remarkable  tiling  about  I'klwards  (and  it 
explains  his  other  qualities)  was  that  he  realised  his  thoughts,  and 
through  that  fact  alone  nuv^e  his  hearers  realiice  them.  Doubtless 
the  things  that  were  real  to  Edwards  were  not  the  things  that  were 
real  to  Franklin.  The  things  that  were  real  to  Franklin  were  phe- 
nomenal to  Edwards  and  of  little  concern  to  him.  Franklin,  in- 
tensely curious  about  the  processes  of  nature,  managed  to  snatch 
the  lightning  from  the  clouds ;  but  Edwards,  who  regarded  all 
externality  as  the  thought  of  (iod,  was  content,  as  a  rule,  to 
wander  in  the  woods,  intent  on  the  Creator  and  oblivious  of  the 
creation.  Franklin,  extremely  interested  in  the  jjolitical  affairs  of 
the  day,  snatched  also  the  sceptre  from  the  tyrant  or  helped  to 
snatch  it.  Edwards  took  no  concern  in  current  jvolitics,  but 
devoted  his  life  to  restoring  a  rebellious  world  to  its  lawful  God. 
Franklin  may  have  thought  Edwards  a  fanatic,  and  Edwards  would 
have  thought  Franklin  a  reprobate.  Bui  they  were  men  of  much 
the  same  sort  of  mental  power. 

There  can  be  no  doubt  that  Edwards  conceived  his  ideas  in  a 
manner  "  more  vivid,  lively,  forcible,  firm,  steady  "  than  most  peo- 
ple. Hence  his  ideas  were  powers  within  him,  as  other  people's 
were  not :  they  made  him  do  this  and  that,  as  other  people's  do 
not.  "Once  more,"  says  his  biographer  (of  our  owi  time),  "he 
was  overcome  and  burst  into  loud  weeping,  as  he  thought  how 
meet  and  suitable  it  was  that  God  should  govern  the  world,  order- 
ing all  things  according  to  his  own  pleasure."  We  can  receive 
that  idea  into  our  minds  without  disturbance  of  any  kind ;  with 
Edwards  it  often  had  physical  consequences.  It  is  often  said 
that  Edwards  pressed  his  logic  too  far.  The  fact  was  that  certain 
ideas  were  real  to  him.  Hence  he  was  led  to  state,  for  instance, 
that  "  when  the  saints  in  heaven  shall  look  upon  the  damned  in 
hell,  it  will  serve  to  give  them  a  greater  sense  of  their  own  happi- 
ness." Few  persons  reading  the  sermon  on  The  Wicked  Useful 
in  their  Destruction  Only,  will  dissen*.  from  its  doctrine  on  any 
logical  ground.  We  dissent  from  it  because  the  ideas  called  up 
are  too  feeble  to  hold  their  own  before  the  inconsistent  ideas  of 
sympathy,  tolerance,  indifferentism,  humanity,  which  are  more  real 
to  us  than  they  were  to  Edwards. 


nHf^rttwfeV.'v^^l^^^^^f'm" 


■-^ffjpyi^.; 


J^E^^s 


!(■■ 


JON  A  THAN  ED  WARDS 


IS 


!  many  other 
vartls  (and  it 
ihouglits,  aiid 
1.  Doubtless 
tigs  that  were 
lIui  were  phe- 

Fraiikhn,  in- 
;ed  to  snatch 

regarded  all 
as  a  rule,  tu 
livious  of  the 
tical  affairs  of 

or  helped  to 

politics,  but 
;s  lawful  God. 
Cd  wards  would 
men  of  much 

his  ideas  in  a 
han  most  peo- 
other  people's 
IX  people's  do 
n  time),  "he 
;  thought  how 
;  world,  order- 
e  can  receive 
ly  kind ;  with 

is  often  said 
is  that  certain 
;,  for  instance, 
le  damned  in 

ir  own  happi- 
Vicked  Useful 
ictrine  on  any 

eas  called  up 
stent  ideas  of 

are  more  real 


It  is  this  power  of  realizing  his  conteptions,  making  theni  forces 
in  his  mind,  that  made  Kdwards  great.  He  went  to  Knfield  once 
and  preached  to  a  congregation  which  had  assembled  in  a  very 
onlinary  any-Sunday  mood.  In  his  (|uiet  way,  leaning  upon  one 
arm  and  without  gesture,  his  eye  fixed  u|X)n  some  distant  part  of 
the  nieetiUji-house,  he  preached  a  sermon  w'ioli  New  Kngland 
'•  has  nev(  i  been  able  to  forget."  The  congregation  was  aroused 
beyond  belief :  he  had  not  gone  far  before  the  tears  and  outcries 
drowned  hi  .voice,  and  he  paused  to  rebuke  his  hearers  and  to  bid 
them  allow  him  to  go  on.  Few  of  us,  probably,  have  ever  seen 
such  an  effect  ca\ised  by  the  spoken  word  alone.  Turn  to  the 
sermon  Sinners  in  the  Hands  of  an  Anpy  God,  and  see  if  you  find 
an  explanation  of  such  emotion  >••  others,  or  if  you  feel  any  especial 
emotion  yourself.  The  ideas  will  be  wholly  unreal  to  many  of  us, 
as  unreal  as  the  legends  of  King  Arthur,  or  even  more  so ;  thev 
have  no  force  when  we  conceive  them.  They  were  real  to  Ed- 
wards, and  he  made  them  real  to  his  congregation  :  to  Edwards 
they  were  but  minor  corollaries  of  ideas  which  sustained  and  up- 
lifted him  ;  to  tlie  congregation  they  were  at  the  time  all-powerful 
and  of  terrible  effect. 

As  we  read  Edwards  to-day  we  can  perceive  this  power,  but  we 
cannot  do  much  more.  We  cannot  realize  his  ideas  ourselves  until 
we  devitalize  a  whole  host  of  ideas  of  our  own  time.  We  must 
probably  content  ourselves  with  imagining  what  has  been.  Nor  is 
it  especially  profitable  to  examine  the  technical  means  by  which 
he  succeeded  in  the  great  aim  of  literature.  Edwards  is  an  ex- 
ample of  the  power  of  unrhetorical  rhetoric.  His  most  marked 
rhetorical  means  weie  negative:  he  instinctively  avoided  what  was 
likely  to  stand  between  him  and  his  hearer,  and  so  his  personality 
had  full  sway.  But  Edwards'  literary  significance  at  present  lies 
chiefly  in  the  fact  that  he  was  a  New  Englander  who  made  the 
world  aware  of  the  New  England  mind.  That  he  should  have 
been  a  theologian  was  natural ;  so  was  Cotton  Mather,  chiefly, 
who  had  performed  a  somewhat  similar  service  half  a  century 
before.  Each  had  presented  what  had  long  been  the  dominant 
factor  in  New  England  life. 

Edward  Everett  Hale,  Jr. 


,f 


l6 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


\\\ 


NATURE   AND   HOLINESS 

From  about  that  time,  I  began  to  have  a  new  kind  of  appre- 
hensions and  ideas  of  Ciirist,  and  the  work  of  redemption,  and 
the  glorious  way  of  salvation  by  him.  An  inward,  sweet  sense 
of  tiiesc  things,  at  times,  came  into  my  heart ;  and  my  soul  was 
led  away  in  pleasant  views  and  contemplations  of  them.  And 
my  mind  was  greatly  engageti  to  spentl  my  lime  in  reading  and 
meditating  on  Christ,  on  the  beauty  and  excellency  of  his  person, 
and  the  lovely  way  of  salvation  by  free  grace  in  him.  1  found 
no  books  so  delightful  to  me,  as  those  that  treated  of  these  sub- 
jects. 'I'hose  words,  Cant.  ii.  i,  usetl  to  be  abundantly  with  me, 
/  am  the  Rose  of  Sharon,  and  the  Lily  of  the  valleys.  The  words 
seemed  to  me  sweetly  to  re|)resent  the  loveliness  and  beauty  of 
Jesus  Christ.  The  whole  book  of  Canticles  used  to  be  pleasant  to 
me,'and  I  used  to  be  much  in  reading  it,  about  that  time  ;  and  found, 
from  time  to  time,  an  inward  sweetness,  that  would  carry  me  away 
in  my  contemplations.  This  I  know  not  how  to  express  otherwise, 
than  by  a  calm,  sweet  abstraction  of  soul  from  all  the  concerns  of 
this  world ;  and  sometimes  a  kind  of  vision,  or  fixed  ideas  and 
imaginations,  of  being  alone  in  the  mountains,  or  some  solitary 
wilderness,  far  from  all  mankind,  sweetly  conversing  with  Christ, 
and  rapt  and  swallowed  up  in  God.  The  sense  I  had  of  divine 
things  would  often  of  a  sudden  kindle  up,  as  it  were,  a  sweet  burn- 
ing in  my  heart ;  an  ardor  of  soul  that  I  know  not  how  to  express. 

Not  long  after  I  first  began  to  exjierience  these  things,  I  gave 
an  account  to  my  father  of  some  thngs  that  had  passed  in  my 
mind.  I  was  pretty  much  affected  by  the  discourse  we  had 
together ;  and  when  the  discourse  was  ended,  I  walked  abroad 
alone,  in  a  solitary  place  in  my  father's  pasture,  for  contem- 
plation. And  as  I  was  walking  there,  and  looking  up  on  the 
sky  and  clouds,  there  came  into  my  mind  so  sweet  a  sense  of 
the  glorious  majesty  and  grace  of  God,  that  I  know  not  how 
to  express.  I  seemed  to  sge  them  both  in_a  iiKeeLXQlijynction  ; 
majesty  and  meekness  joinedtogether  ;  it  was  a  sweet  and  gentle, 
and  holy  majesty ;  and  also  a  mastic  meekness ;  an  awfiil  sweet- 
ness ;  a  high,  and  great,  and  holy  gentleness. 


1 


JONATHAN  EDWARDS 


n 


kind  of  appre- 
I'.emptioii,  and 
(I,  sweet  sense 
ul  my  soul  was 
of  them.  And 
in  reading  and 
/  of  his  person, 
him.  1  found 
(1  of  these  sub- 
iantly  with  me, 
ys.  The  words 
;  and  beauty  of 

0  be  pleasant  to 
me ;  and  found, 

1  carry  me  away 
;press  otherwise, 
the  concerns  of 
fixed  ideas  and 
>r  some  solitary 
iing  with  Christ, 
I  had  of  divine 
re,  a  sweet  burn- 
t  how  to  express, 
se  things,  I  gave 
id  passed  in  my 
iscourse  we   had 
I  walked  abroad 
Lire,  for  contem- 
king  up  on  the 
iweet  a  sense  of 
[  know  not  how 
feeLCQBiynction ; 
sweet  and  gende, 
J  an  awfiil  sweet- 


Afler  this  my  sense  of  ilivine  things  gradually  increased,  and 
became  more  and  more  lively,  and  had  more  of  that  inward 
sweetness.  The  appearance  of  every  thing  was  altereil ;  there 
seemed  to  be,  as  it  were,  a  calm,  sweet  cast,  or  appearance  of 
divine  glory,  in  almost  every  thing,  (iod's  excellency,  his  wis- 
dom, his  purity  and  love,  seemed  to  appear  in  every  thing ;  in 
the  sun,  and  moon,  and  stars ;  in  the  clouds  antl  blue  sky  ;  in  the 
grass,  flowers,  trees ;  in  the  water,  and  all  nature  ;  which  used 
greatly  to  fix  my  mind.  I  often  used  to  sit  and  view  the  moon 
for  continuance ;  and  in  the  day  spent  much  time  in  viewing  the 
clouds  and  sky,  to  beholil  the  sweet  glory  of  God  in  these  things ; 
in  the  mean  time,  singing  forth,  with  a  low  voice,  my  contempla- 
tions of  the  Creator  and  Redeemer.  And  scarce  anything,  among 
all  the  works  of  nature,  was  as  sweet  to  me  as  thunder  and  light- 
ning; formerly,  nothing  had  been  so  terrible  to  me.  Before,  I 
used  to  be  uncommonly  terrified  with  thunder,  anti  to  be  struck 
with  terror  when  I  saw  a  thunder  storm  rising ;  but  now,  on  the 
contrary,  it  rejoiced  me.  I  felt  (iod,  so  to  speak,  at  the  first 
appearance  of  a  thunder  storm  ;  and  used  to  take  the  opportunity, 
at  such  times,  to  fix  myself  in  order  to  view  the  clouds  and  see  the 
lightnings  play,  and  hear  the  majestic  and  awftil  voice  of  God's 
thunder,  which  oftentimes  was  exceedingly  entertaining,  leading 
me  to  sweet  contemplations  of  my  great  anel  glorious  God.  While 
thus  engaged,  it  always  seemed  natural  to  me  to  sing,  or  chant 
forth  my  meditations ;  or,  to  speak  my  thoughts  in  soliloquies  with 
a  singing  voice.  .  .  . 

The  heaven  I  desired  was  a  heaven  of  holiness;  to  be  with  God, 
and  to  spend  my  eternity  in  divine  love,  and  holy  communion  with 
Christ.  My  mind  was  very  much  taken  up  with  contemplations 
on  heaven,  and  the  enjoyments  there ;  und  living  there  in  perfect 
holiness,  humility,  and  love ;  and  it  used  at  that  time  to  appear  a 
great  part  of  the  happiness  of  heaven,  that  there  the  saints  could 
express  their  love  to  Christ.  It  appeared  to  me  a  great  clog  and 
burden,  that  what  I  felt  within,  I  could  not  express  as  I  desired. 
'i"he  inward  ardor  of  my  soul  seemed  to  be  hindered  and  pent  up, 
and  could  not  freely  flame  out  as  it  would.  I  used  often  to  think, 
how  in  heaven  this  principle  should  freely  and  fully  vent  and  ex- 
press itself.  Heaven  appeared  exceedingly  delightful,  as  a  world 
c 


1-4 

'I 


-if 

II 


T'.^^^w^^'^rtS^gjj^^fc .- 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


uf  love  ;  and  that  all  liappincss  cuiisiHtecl  in  living  in  pure,  humble, 
heavenly,  divine  love. 

I  rcinember  the  thoughts  I  iiHod  then  to  have  of  holiness ;  and 
said  somctinK's  to  myself,  "  I  do  ceilainly  know  that  I  love  holi- 
ness, such  as  the  gospel  prescribes."  It  appeared  to  me  that  there 
was  nothing  in  it  but  what  was  ravisliingly  lovely  ;  the  highest 
beauty  and  amiableness  —  a  divine  beauty;  far  purer  than  any 
thing  here  on  earth  ;  and  that  everything  else  was  like  mire  and 
defdemenf,  in  comparison  of  it. 

Holiness,  as  I  then  wrote  down  some  of  my  contemplations  on 
it,  api)eared  to  me  to  be  of  a  sweet,  pleasant,  t  harming,  serene, 
calm  nature  ;  which  brought  an  inexpressible  purity,  brightness, 
peacefulness,  and  ravishment  to  the  soul.  In  other  words,  that  it 
made  the  soul  like  a  field  or  garden  of  (iod,  with  all  manner  of 
pleasant  flowers  ;  all  pleasant,  delightful,  and  undisturbed  ;  enjoy- 
ing a  sweet  calm,  and  the  gentle  vivifying  beams  of  the  sun.  The 
soul  of  a  true  C'hristian,  as  I  then  wrote  my  meditations,  appeared 
like  such  a  little  white  flower  as  we  sec  in  the  spring  of  the  year; 
low  and  humble  on  the  ground,  opening  its  bosom  to  receive  the 
pleasant  beams  of  the  sun's  glory ;  rejoicing  as  it  were  in  a  calm 
rapture  ;  dilTusing  around  a  sweet  fragrancy  ;  standing  peacefully 
and  lovingly,  in  the  midst  of  other  flowers  round  about ;  all  in  like 
manner  opening  their  bosoms,  to  drink  in  the  light  of  the  sun. 
There  was  no  part  of  creature  holiness,  that  I  had  so  great  a  sense 
of  its  loveliness,  as  humility,  brokenness  of  heart,  and  poverty  of 
spirit ;  and  there  was  nothing  that  I  so  earnestly  longed  for.  My 
heart  panted  after  this,  to  lie  low  before  God,  as  in  the  dust ;  that 
I  might  be  nothing,  and  that  God  might  be  all,  that  I  might 
become  as  a  little  child. 


[From  certain  private  papers  written  about  1723. 
vol.  i,  pp.  16-18.]  ^      ■ 


IVorki,  edition  of  1857, 


SARAH  PIERREPONT 


They  say  there  is  a  young  lady  in  [New  Haven]  who  is  beloved 
of  that  great  Being  who  made  and  rules  the  wcrld,  and  that  there 
are  certain  seasons  in  which  this  great  Being,  in  some  way  or  other 
invisible,  comes  to  her  and  fills  her  mind  with  exceeding  sweet 


I 


JONATHAN  hDWAKOS 


"9 


pure,  humble, 

uiliiicss ;  and 
I  love  lioli- 
ine  that  there 
;  the  hi(;hc8t 
rer  than  any 
ike  mire  and 

;mpIation»  on 
ming,  serene, 
y,  brightness,  *^ 
words,  that  it 
all  manner  of 
irbed ;  enjoy- 
:he  sun.     The 
ons,  appeared 
;  of  the  year; 
to  receive  the 
vere  in  a  calm 
ing  peacefully 
)iit ;  all  in  like 
It  of  the  sun. 
I  great  a  sense 
nd  poverty  of 
iged  for.     My 
the  dust ;  that 
that  I  might 

edition  of  1857, 


vho  is  beloved 
and  that  there 
e  way  or  other 
ceeding  sweet 


<!clight,  iiiid  that  she  hailly  cares  for  anything  except  to  nie<litate 
on  Kitn  ;  that  she  expc(  ts  after  a  wiiile  to  be  re<eive(|  up  where 
He  is,  to  be  raised  up  out  of  the  world  and  <  aught  up  into  heaven  ; 
being  assured  that  lie  loves  her  too  well  to  let  her  reniain  at  a 
distance  from  ilim  always.  There  she  is  to  dwell  with  lliui,  and 
to  be  ravished  with  His  love  and  delight  forever.  'I'hcreforc,  if 
you  present  all  the  world  before  her,  with  the  richest  of  its  treas- 
ures, she  disregards  and  cares  not  for  it,  and  is  immindful  of  any 
pain  or  aflliction.  She  has  a  strange  sweetness  in  her  minil,  and 
singular  jHirity  in  her  alTeclions  ;  is  most  just  and  conscientious  in 
all  her  conduct ;  and  you  could  not  persuade  her  to  do  anything 
wrong  or  sinful,  if  you  would  give  her  all  the  world,  lest  she  should 
offend  this  great  Heing.  She  is  of  a  wonderful  calmness,  and 
universal  benevolence  of  mind  ;  especially  after  this  great  (lod  has 
manifested  Himself  to  her  mind.  She  will  sometimes  go  about 
from  |)lace  to  piace  singing  sweetly  ;  and  seems  to  be  always  full 
of  joy  and  pleasure,  and  no  one  knows  for  what.  She  loves  to  be 
alone,  walking  in  the  fields  and  groves,  and  seems  to  have  some 
one  invisible  always  conversing  with  her. 

[From  a  private  paper,  written  about  1723,  and  pul)lishecl  in  Dwight's  Lift,'\ 


.SIN'S   ENTRANCE   INTO  THE   WORLD 

The  things,  which  have  already  been  offered,  may  serve  to 
obviate  or  clear  many  of  the  objections  which  might  be  raised 
concerning  sin's  first  coming  into  the  world ;  as  though  it  would 
follow  from  the  doctrine  maintained,  that  God  must  be  the  author 
of  the  first  sin,  through  his  so  disposing  things,  that  it  should 
necessarily  follow  from  his  permission,  that  the  sinful  act  should 
be  committed,  etc.  I  need  not,  therefore,  stand  to  repeat  what 
has  been  said  already,  about  such  a  necessity's  not  proving  God  to 
be  the  author  of  sin,  in  any  ill  sense,  or  in  any  such  sense  as 
to  infringe  any  liberty  of  man,  concerned  in  his  moral  agency, 
or  capacity  of  blame,  guilt,  and  punishment. 

But,  if  it  should  nevertheless  be  said,  supposing  the  case  so,  that 
God,  when  he  had  made  man,  might  so  order  his  circumstances, 
that  from  these  circumstances,  together  with  his  withholding  further 


\:    ' 


[iiiaLUffM.  ,uiiii.nwwiiiiw 


20 


AM  EN  IC AN  PROSE 


m 


r 


assistance  and  divine  influence,  his  sin  would  infallibly  follow,  why 
might  not  God  as  well  have  first  made  man  with  a  fixed  prevailing 
principle  of  sin  in  his  heart  ?     1  answer, 

I.  It  was  meet,  if  sin  did  come  into  existence,  and  appear  in 
the  world,  it  should  arise  from  the  imperfection  which  properly 
belongs  to  a  creature,  as  such,  and  should  appear  so  to  do,  that  it 
might  appear  not  to  be  from  God  as  the  efficient  or  fountain. 
But  this  could  not  have  been,  if  man  had  been  made  at  first  with 
sin  in  his  heart ;  nor  unless  the  abiding  principle  and  habit  of  sin 
were  first  introduced  by  an  evil  act  of  the  creature.  If  sin  had 
not  arisen  from  the  imperfection  of  the  creature,  it  would  not  have 
been  so  visible,  that  it  did  riot  arise  from  God,  as  the  positive 
cause,  and  real  source  of  it.  —  But  it  would  require  room  that  can- 
not here  be  allowed,  fully  to  consider  all  the  difficulties  which 
have  been  started,  concerning  the  first  entrance  of  sin  into  the 
world.     And  therefore, 

II."  I  would  observe,  that  objections  against  the  doctrine  that 
has  been  laid  down,  in  opposition  to  the  Arminian  notion  of 
liberty,  from  these  difficulties,  are  altogether  impertinent ;  because 
no  additional  difficulty  is  incurred,  by  adhering  to  a  scheme  in 
this  manner  differing  from  theirs,  and  none  would  be  removed  or 
avoided,  by  agreeing  with,  and  maintaining  theirs.  Nothing  that 
the  Anninians  say,  about  the  contingence,  or  self-determining 
power  of  man's  will,  can  serve  to  explain,  with  less  difficulty,  how 
the  first  sinful  volition  of  mankind  could  take  place,  and  man  be 
justly  charged  with  the  blame  of  it.  To  say,  the  Will  was  self- 
determined,  or  determined  by  free  choice,  in  that  sinful  volition; 
which  is  to  say,  that  the  first  sinful  volition  was  determined  by  a 
foregoing  sinful  volition  ;  is  no  solution  of  the  difficulty.  It  is  an 
odd  way  of  solving  difficulties,  to  advance  greater,  in  ord^r  to  it. 
To  say,  two  and  two  make  nine ;  or,  that  a  child  begat  his  father, 
solves  no  difficulty ;  no  more  does  it,  to  say,  the  first  sinful  act  of 
choice  was  before  the  first  sinful  act  of  choice,  and  chose  and  deter- 
mined it,  and  bro  ight  it  to  pass.  Nor  is  it  any  better  solution,  to 
say,  the  first  sinful  volition  chose,  determined  and  produced  itself; 
which  is  to  say,  it  was  before  it  was.  Nor  will  it  go  any  further 
towards  he  ping  us  over  the  difficulty  to  say,  the  first  sinful  volition 
arose  accidentally,  without  any  cause  at  all ;  any  more  inan  it  will 


^mmemmmum: 


mmm 


yOAATJ/AAT  EDlVAJiDS 


21 


)ly  follow,  why 
xed  prevailing 

ind  appear  in 
hich  properly 
)  to  do,  that  it 
It  or  fountain, 
le  at  first  with 
id  habit  of  sin 
e.  If  sin  had 
irould  not  have 
IS  the  positive 
room  that  can- 
ificulties  which 
>f  sin  into  the 

I  doctrine  that 
lian  notion  of 
inent ;  because 
o  a  scheme  in 
be  removed  or 
Nothing  that 
elf-determining 
difficulty,  how 
e,  and  man  be 
Will  was  self- 
sinful  volition ; 
etermined  by  a 
culty.     It  is  an 
,  in  oril  *r  to  it. 
)egat  his  father, 
irst  sinful  act  of 
;hose  and  deter- 
:tter  solution,  to 
produced  itself; 
;  go  any  further 
rst  sinful  volition 
nore  man  it  will 


solve  the  difficult  question,  H,m  the  world  could  be  made  out  of 
nothing?  to  say,  it  came  into  being  out  of  nothing,  without  any 
cause ;  as  has  been  already  observed.  And  if  we  should  allow 
tliat  that  could  be,  that  the  first  evil  evolution  should  arise  by 
perfect  accident,  without  any  cause ;  it  would  relieve  no  difficulty, 
about  God's  laying  the  blame  of  it  to  man.  For  how  was  man  to 
blame  for  perfect  accident,  which  had  no  cause,  and  which  there- 
fore, he  (to  be  sure)  was  not  the  cause  of,  any  more  than  if  it  came 
by  some  external  cause?  — Such  solutions  are  no  better,  than  if 
some  person,  going  about  to  solve  some  of  the  strange  mathemat- 
ical paradoxes,  about  infinitely  great  and  small  quantities  ;  as,  that 
some  infinitely  great  quantities  are  infinitely  greater  than  some 
other  infinitely  great  quantities;  and  also  that  fome  infinitely 
small  quantities,  are  infinitely  less  than  others,  which  are  yet  infi- 
nitely little  ;  in  order  to  a  solution,  should  say,  that  mankind  have 
been  under  a  mistake,  in  supposing  a  greater  quantity  to  exceed  a 
smaller ;  and  that  a  hundred,  multiplied  by  ten,  makes  but  a  single 

unit.  ■,■:■:•    _      <\  ..•  :-\  ,:;v;. ■:,-:::„  ;-,...  .'l-^r 

lA  Careful  and  Strut  Inquiry  into  the  Modern  Prevailing  Notions  of  that 
Freedom  of  the  IVill,  which  is  sup(>osed  to  be  Essential  to  Moral  Agency,  Virtue 
and  Vice,  Re^oard and  Punishment,  Praise  ancf  Blame;  part  iv,  section  lo 
'754.] 

NATURAL  MEN  ARE  GOD'S  ENEMIES 

I.   I  ani  to  show,  in  what  respects  they  are  enemies  to  God. 

I.  Their  enmity  appears  in  their  judgments;  in  the  judgment 
and  esteem  they  have  of  God.  They  have  a  very  mean  esteem 
of  God.  Men  are  ready  to  entertain  a  good  esteem  of  those  with 
whom  they  are  friends :  they  are  apt  to  think  highly  of  their 
qualities,  to  give  them  their  due  praises ;  and  if  there  be  defects, 
to  cover  them.  But  those  to  whom  they  are  enemies,  they  are 
disposed  to  have  mean  thoughts  of;  they  are  apt  to  jntertair. 
a  dishonorable  opinion  of  them  ;  they  will  be  ready  tr  look  con- 
temptibly upon  anything  that  is  praiseworthy  in  them. 

So  it  is  with  natural  men  towards  God.  They  entertain  very 
low  and  contemptible  thoughts  of  God.  Whatever  honor  and 
respect  they  may  pretend  and  make  a  show  of  towards  God,  if 


'Wj 


fjfig' 


■^^tk 


iiiiii- 


22 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


their  practice  be  examined,  it  will  show,  that  they  do  certainly 
look  upon,  him  to  be  a  Being,  that  is  but  little  to  be  regarded. 
They  think  him  one  that  is  worthy  of  very  little  honor  and  respect, 
not  worthy  to  be  much  taken  notice  of. 

The  language  of  their  heart  is,  "  Who  is  the  Lord,  that  I  slmuld 
obey  his  voice  ?  "  Exod.  v.  2.  "  What  is  the  Almighty,  that  we 
should  serve  him?  and  what  profit  should  we  have  if  we  pray  unto 
him?"  Job  xxi.  15.  They  count  him  worthy  neither  to  be 
loved  nor  feared.  They  dare  not  behave  with  that  slight  and  dis- 
regard towards  one  of  their  fellow  creatures,  when  a  little  raiseil 
above  them  in  power  and  authority,  as  they  dare  and  do  towards 
God.  They  value  one  of  their  etpials  much  more  than  God, 
and  are  ten  times  more  afraid  of  offending  such  a  one,  than  of 
displeasing  the  God  thai  made  them.  They  cast  such  exceeding 
contempt  on  God,  as  to  prefer  every  vile  lust  before  him.  And 
every  worMly  enjoyment  is  set  higher  in  their  esteem  than  God. 
A  morsel  of  meat,  or  a  fe-,v  pence  of  worldly  gain,  is  preferred 
before  him.     God  is  set  last  and  lowest  in  the  esteem  of  natural 

men.  ...  „       1    u  • 

3.  Their  wills  are  contrary  to  his  will.  God's  will  and  theirs 
are  exceeding  cross  the  one  to  the  other.  God  wills  those  things 
that  they  hate,  and  are  most  averse  to  ;  and  they  will  those  things 
that  God  hates.  Hence  they  oppose  Go<l  in  their  wills  :  they  set 
up  their  wills  against  the  will  of  God.  There  is  a  dreadful,  violent, 
and  obstinate  opposition  of  the  will  of  natural  men  to  the  will  of 

God.  t      T    •    f 

They  are  very  opposite  to  the  commands  of  God.  It  is  from 
the  enmity  of  the  will,  that  "  the  carnal  mind  is  not  subject  to  the 
law  of  God,  neither  indeed  can  be,"  Rom.  vii.  7.  Hence  natural 
men  are  enemies  to  God's  government.  They  are  not  loyal  sub- 
jects, but  enemies  to  God,  conside-ed  as  Lord  of  the  world. 
They  are  entire  enemies  to  God's.      '*■■•.  >ritv. 

4.'  They  are  enemies  to  God  n  to  *  affections.  There  is  m 
every  natural  man  a  seed  of  malic-  .-;a'i)st  God:  yea,  there  is 
such  a  seed  of  this  rooted  in  the  heau  of  man  naturally.  And  it 
•  does  often  dreadfully  break  forth  and  appear.  Though  it  may  m 
a  great  measure  lie  hid  in  secure  times,  when  God  lets  men  alone, 
and  they  meet  with  no  great  disturbance  of  body  or  mind ;  yet  if 


ijiliaiiggag§Miaiiiii^^ 


JONATHAN  EDWARDS 


23 


ley  do  certainly 
to  be  regarded, 
nor  and  respect, 

rd,  tliat  I  should 
mighty,  that  we 
;  if  we  pray  unto 
jr  neither  to  be 
It  slight  and  dis- 
en  a  little  raised 
and  do  towards 
nore  than  God, 
1  a  one,  than  of 
;  such  exceeding 
efore  him.  And 
iteem  than  God. 
;ain,  is  preferred 
esteem  of  natural 

3  will  and  theirs 
nils  those  things 
will  those  things 
ir  wills  :  they  set 
dreadfiil,  violent, 
I  en  to  the  will  of 

God.  It  is  from 
lot  subject  to  the 
.  Hence  natural 
are  not  loyal  sub- 
rd  of  the  world. 

ons.  There  is  in 
3d :  yea,  there  is 
naturally.  And  it 
Though  it  may  in 
)d  lets  men  alone, 
y  or  mind ;  yet  if 


(iod  but  does  touch  men  a  little  in  their  consciences,  by  manifest- 
ing to  them  a  little  of  his  wrath  for  their  sins,  this  oftentimes 
brings  out  the  principle  of  malice  against  Got!,  which  is  exercised 
in  dreadful  heart-risings,  inward  wranglings  and  quarrelings,  and 
blasphemous  thoughts ;  wherein  the  heart  is  like  a  viper,  hissing, 
and  spitting  poison  at  God.     There  is  abundance  of  such  a  prin- 
ciple in  the  heart.     And  however  free  from  it  the  heart  may  seem 
to  be  when  let  alone  and  secure,  yet  a  very  little  thing  will  set  it  in 
a  rage.    Temptation  will  show  what  is  in  the  heart.   Tne  alteration 
of  a  man's  circumstances  will  often  discover  the  heart :  a  change 
of  circumstance  will  bring  that  out  which  was  hid  before.    Pharaoh 
had  no  more  natural  enmity  against  God  than  other  men ;  and 
if  other  natural  men  had  been  in  Pharaoh's  circumstances,  the 
same  corruptions  would  have  put  forth  themselves  in  as  dreadful  a 
manner.    The  Scribes  and  Pharisees  had  naturally  no  more  of-a 
principle  of  malice  in  their  hearts  against  Christ  than  other  men ; 
and  other  natural  men  would,  in  their  case,  and  having  as  little 
restraint,  exercise  as  much  malice  against  Christ  as  they  did. 
When  wicked  men  come  to  be  cast  into  hell,  then  their  malice 
against  God  will  appear.     Then  it  will  appear  what  dreadful 
malice  they  have  in  their  hearts.     Then  their  hearts  will  appear 
as  full  of  malice  as  hell  is  full  of  fire.    But  when  wicked  men  come 
to  be  in  hell,  there  will  be  no  new  corniptions  put  into  their 
hearts  ;  but  only  old  ones  will  break  forth  without  restraint.     That 
is  all  the  difference  between  a  wicked  man  on  earth  and  a  wicked 
man  in  hell,  that  in  hell  there  will  be  more  to  stir  up  the  exercise 
of  corruption,  and  less  to  restrain  it  than  on  earth  ;  but  there  will 
be  no  new  corruption   put  in.    A  wicked   man  will  have  no 
prinriple  of  corruption  in  hell,  but  what  he  carried  to  hell  with 
him.     There  are  now  the  seeds  of  all  the  malice  that  will  be 
exercised  then.    The  malice  of  damned  spirits  is  but  a  branch  of 
the  root,  that  is  in  the  hearts  of  natural  men  now.     A  natural  man 
has  a  heart  like  the  heart  of  a  devil ;  but  only  as  corruption  is 
more  under  restraint  in  man  than  in  devils. 

5.  They  are  enemies  in  their  practice.  "They  walk  contrary 
to  him,"  Lev.  xxvi.  21.  Their  enmity  against  God  does  not  lie 
still,  but  they  are  exceeding  active  in  it.  They  are  engaged  in  a 
war  against  God.     Indeed  they  cannot  hurt  God,  he  is  so  much 


W- 


"^**%.. 


24 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


\ 


above  them ;  but  yet  they  do  what  they  can.  They  oppose  them- 
selves to  his  honor  and  glory  :  they  oppose  themselves  to  the 
interest  of  his  kingdom  in  the  world :  they  oppose  themselves  to 
the  will  and  command  of  God ;  and  oppose  him  in  his  govern- 
ment. They  oppose  God  in  his  works,  and  in  his  declared 
designs ;  while  God  is  doing  one  work,  they  are  doing  the  con- 
trary, and  as  much  as  in  them  lies,  counter-working ;  God  seeks 
one  thing,  and  they  seek  directly  the  contrary.  They  list  under 
Satan's  banner,  and  are  his  willing  soldiers  in  his  opposing  the 
kingdom  of  God. 

[From  sermon  three  :  Men  Naturally  Cod't  Enemies.     Works,  vol.  iv,  pp. 
37-40.]  ,    • 

THE  LEGACY  OF  CHRIST 

This  legacy  of  Christ  to  his  true  disciples  is  very  diverse  from  all 
that  the  men  of  this  \-  »rld  ever  leave  to  their  children  when  they 
die.    The  men  of  this  world,  many  of  them,  when  they  come  to 
die,  have  great  estates  to  bequeath  to  their  children,  an  abundance 
of  the  good  things  of  this  world,  large  tracts  of  ground,  perhaps  in 
a  fruitful  soil,  covered  with  flocks  and  herds.    They  sometimes 
leave  to  their  children  stately  mansions,  and  vast  treasures  of  sil- 
ver, gold,  jewels,  and   precious  things,  fetched  from  both  the 
Indies,  and  from  every  side  of  the  globe  of  the  earth.    They  leave 
them  wherewith  to  live  in  much  state  and  magnificence,  and  make 
a  great  show  among  men,  to  fare  very  sumptuously ;  and  swim  in 
worldly  pleasures.     Some  have  crowns,  sceptres,  and  palaces,  and 
great  monarchies  to  leave  to  their  heirs.    But  none  of  these  things 
are  to  be  compared  to  that  blessed  peace  of  Christ  which  he  has 
bequeathed  to  his  true  followers.    These  things  are  such  as  God 
commonly,  in  his  providence,  gives  his  worst  enemies,  those  whom 
he  hates  and  despises  most.    But  Christ's  peace  is  a  precious 
benefit,  which    he  reserves  for  his   peculiar  favorites.      These 
worldly  things,  even  the  best  of  them,  that  the  men  and  princes  of 
the  world  leave  for  their  children,  are  things  which  God  in  his 
providence  throws  out  to  those  whom  he  looks  on  as  dogs ;  but 
Christ's  peace  is  the  bread  of  his  children.     All  these  earthly 
things  are  but  empty  shadows,  which,  however  men  set  their 


U^HnMi^'^ie^i/Sssiiili^fs:- ■ 


ft: 


mmm 


^^ 


JONATHAN  EDWARDS 


25 


jy  oppose  thera- 
emselves  to  the 
se  themselves  to 
I  in  his  govern- 
in  his  declared 
doing  the  con- 
ing ;  God  seeks 
They  list  under 
lis  opposing  the 

Works,  vol.  iv,  pp. 


jr  diverse  from  all 
ildren  when  they 
en  they  come  to 
en,  an  abundance 
ound,  perhaps  in 
They  sometimes 

treasures  of  sil- 
l  from  both  the 
irth.  They  leave 
icence,  and  make 
ly;  and  swim  in 
and  palaces,  and' 
le  of  these  things 
ist  which  he  has 
are  such  as  God 
mies,  those  whom 
ce  is  a  precious 
'avorites.  These 
en  and  princes  of 
vhich  God  in  his 

on  as  dogs ;  but 
All  these  earthly 
er  men  set  their 


hearts  upon  them,  are  not  bread,  and  can  never  satisfy  their  souls  ; 
but  this  peace  of  Christ  is  a  truly  substantial,  satisfying  food,  Isai. 
Iv.  2.  None  of  those  things  if  men  have  them  to  the  best  advan- 
tage, and  in  ever  so  great  abundance,  can  give  true  peace  and 
rest  to  the  soul,  as  is  abundantly  manifest  not  only  in  reason,  but 
experience ;  it  being  found  in  all  ages,  that  those  who  have  the 
most  of  them,  have  commonly  the  least  quietness  of  mind.  It  is 
true,  there  may  be  a  kind  of  quietness,  a  false  peace  they  may 
have  in  their  enjoyment  of  worldly  things ;  men  may  bless  their 
souls,  and  think  themselves  the  only  happy  persons,  and  despise 
others;  may  say  to  their  souls,  as  the  rich  man  did,  Ltike  xii.  19, 
"  Soul,  thou  hast  much  goods  laid  up  for  many  years,  take  thine 
ease,  eat,  drink,  and  be  merry."  But  Christ's  peace,  which  he 
gives  to  his  true  disciples,  vastly  differs  from  thi^  peace  that  men 
may  have  in  the  enjoyments  of  the  world,  in  the  following 
respects : 

I.  Christ's  peace  is  a  reasonable  peace  and  rest  of  soul;  it  is 
what  has  its  foundation  in  light  and  knowledge,  in  the  proper  exer- 
cises of  reason,  and  a  right  view  of  things ;  whereas  the  peace  of 
the  world  is  founded  in  blindness  and  delusion.  The  peace  that  the 
people  of  Christ  have,  arises  from  their  having  their  eyes  open,  and 
seeing  things  as  they  be.  The  more  tht  consider,  and  the  more 
they  know  of  the  truth  and  reality  of  things,  the  more  they  know 
what  is  true  concerning  themselves,  the  state  and  condition  they 
are  in ;  the  more  they  know  of  God,  and  the  more  certain  they  are 
that  there  is  a  God,  and  the  more  they  know  what  manner  of  being 
he  is,  the  more  certain  they  are  of  another  world  and  future  judg- 
ment, and  of  the  truth  of  God's  threatenings  and  promises ;  the 
more  their  consciences  are  awakened  and  enlightened,  and  the 
brighter  and  the  more  searching  the  light  is  that  they  see  things  in, 
the  more  is  their  peace  established  :  whereas,  on  the  contrary,  the 
peace  that  the  men  of  the  world  have  in  their  worldly  enjoyments 
can  subsist  no  otherwise  than  by  their  being  kept  in  ignorance. 
They  must  be  blindfolded  and  deceived,  otherwise  they  can  have 
no  peace  :  do  but  let  hght  in  upon  their  consciences,  so  that  they 
may  look  about  them  and  see  what  they  are,  and  what  circumstan- 
ces they  are  in,  and  it  will  at  once  destroy  all  their  quietness  and 
comfort.    Their  peace  can  live  nowhere  but  in  the  dark.     Light 


II 


SSu 


5 


26 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


turns  their  ease  into  torment.  The  more  they  know  what  is  true 
concerning  God  and  concerning  themselves,  the  more  they  are 
sensible  of  the  truth  concerning  those  enjoyments  which  they  pos- 
sess ;  and  the  more  they  are  sensible  what  things  now  are,  and 
what  things  are  like  to  be  hereafter,  the  more  will  their  calm  be 
turned  into  a  storm.  The  worldly  man's  peace  cannot  be  main- 
tained but  by  avoiding  consideration  and  reflection.  If  he  allows 
himself  to  think,  and  properly  to  exercise  his  reason,  it  destroys 
his  quietness  and  comfort.  If  he  would  establish  his  carnal  peace, 
it  concerns  him  to  put  out  the  light  of  his  mind,  and  turn  beast  as 
fast  as  he  can.  The  faculty  of  reason,  if  at  liberty,  proves  a  mortal 
enemy  to  his  peace.  It  concerns  him,  if  he  would  keep  alive  his 
peace,  to  contrive  all  ways  that  may  be,  to  stupify  his  mind  and 
deceive  himself,  and  to  imagine  things  to  be  otherwise  than  they 
be.  But  with  respect  to  the  peace  which  Christ  gives,  reason  is  its 
great  fnend.  The  more  this  faculty  is  exercised,  the  more  it  is 
established.  The  more  they  consider  and  view  things  with  truth 
and  exactness,  the  firmer  is  their  comfort,  and  the  higher  their  joy. 
How  vast  a  difference  is  there  between  the  peace  of  a  Christian 
and  the  worldling !  How  miserable  are  they  who  cannot  enjoy 
peace  any  otherwise  than  by  hiding  their  eyes  from  the  light,  and 
confining  themselves  to  darkness ;  whose  peace  is  properly  stu- 
pidity ;  as  the  ease  that  a  man  has  who  has  taken  a  dose  of  stupify- 
ing  poison,  and  the  ease  and  pleasure  that  a  drunkard  may  have 
in  a  house  on  fire  over  his  head,  or  the  joy  of  a  distracted  man  in 
thinking  that  he  is  a  king,  though  a  miserable  wretch  confined  in 
bedlam  :  whereas,  the  peace  which  Christ  gives  his  true  disciples, 
is  the  light  of  life,  something  of  the  tranquillity  of  heaven,  the  peace 
of  the  celestial  paradise,  that  has  the  glory  of  God  to  lighten  it. 

[From  sermon  twenty-six :    Tht  Peace  which  Christ  Gives  his  True  FoUmoers. 
Works,  vol.  iv,  pp.  434-435-] 


I 


"  "'"'Tiiii ji"''   " '  I  I '  "ml  iiiiiiiiiii 


1 


)w  what  is  true 
more  they  are 
vhich  they  pos- 
3  now  are,  and 
I  their  calm  be 
mnot  be  main- 
.  If  he  allows 
son,  it  destroys 
lis  carnal  peace, 
id  turn  beast  as 
proves  a  mortal 
1  keep  alive  his 
y  his  mind  and 
rwise  than  they 
ves,  reason  is  its 
,  the  more  it  is 
lings  with  truth 
higher  their  joy. 
;  of  a  Christian 
o  cannot  enjoy 
m  the  light,  and 
is  properly  stu- 
.  dose  of  stupify- 
ikard  may  have 
istracted  man  in 
itch  confined  in 
is  true  disciples, 
eaven,  the  peace 
to  lighten  it. 

Ais  True  Folloivers. 


BENJAMIN    FRANKLIN 

[Benjamin  Franklin  was  born  in  Boston,  of  humble  parents,  on  Jan.  17, 1706. 
He  was  early  apprenti-ed  to  his  brother,  a  printer,  but  developing  tastes  both 
for  study  and  for  persopal  independence,  ran  away  at  the  age  of  seventeen. 
He  reached  Philadelphia  friendless  and  penniless,  but  soon  began  to  rise,  jvai 
sent  on  business  to  London,  where  he  practised  his  trade  and  broadened  his 
experience,  returned  to  Philadelphia  after  about  eighteen  months,  printed  and 
published  newspapers  and  almanacs  there,  and  through  his  frugal  and  indus- 
trious  habits  st.on  acquired  both  means  and  position.  His  public  spirit  dis- 
played in  connection  with  the  establishment  of  libraries  and  other  municipal 
institulions,  his  scientific  studies,  which  culminated  in  his  electrical  discoveries, 
his  career  as  Postmaster-general  and  subsequently  as  agent  for  Pennsylvania 
and  other  colonies  at  London,  made  him  easily  the  most  prominent  American 
of  his  age  both  at  home  and  abroad.  During  the  troubles  preceding  the 
Revolution  he  was  a  consistent  patriot,  and  after  war  was  declared  he  repre- 
sented  the  new  nation  most  admirably  as  ambassador  to  France,  where  he  was 
universally  admired  and  where  his  fame  is  still  fresh.  In  1785  he  returned 
wearied  out  to  the  United  States,  but  he  still  had  strength  to  serve  his  adopted 
state  as  President  and  to  take  an  important  part  in  the  Convention  of  1787 
that  framed  the  Constitution.  He  died  second  in  honor  only  to  Washington 
on  April  17.  1790.  The  best  edition  of  his  works  is  that  in  ten  volumes, 
edited  by  John  Bigelow.  The  best  biography  of  Franklin  u  that  by  John  T. 
Morse,  Jr. 

Franklin  is  by  common  consent  the  greatest  of  our  colonial 
writers,  but  he  is  more  than  this,  for  he  is  one  of  the  greatest  of  all 
American  authors,  and  has  produced  at  least  one  book  (his  Auto- 
hiogmphy)  which  the  world  has  agreed  to  regard  as  a  classic. 
He  shares  with  Cooper,  Poe,  Mrs.  Stowe,  and  perhaps  Emerson 
and  one  or  two  others,  the  horior  of  having  been  fully  appreciated 
abroad,  nor  has  one  of  these  writers  received  more  universal  recog- 
nition at  home,  which  is  a  matter  of  greater  or  at  least  equal  im- 
portance. Yet  he  was  not  primarily  a  man  of  letters,  and  is  thought 
of  as  statesman  and  philosopher  oftener  than  as  author.  On  the 
other  hand,  his  political  wisdom,  his  rare  common  sense,  his  engag- 
er 


■aMM 


28 


AMERICAN  PROSF. 


A 


ing  humor,  his  scientific  speculations  and  discoveries,  are  not  the 
real  basis  of  his  fame  as  a  writer,  however  much  they  may  indirectly 
contribute  to  it.  It  is  not  so  much  what  Franklin  deliberately  did 
or  thought  that  makes  him  a  great  author,  as  what  he  indirectly  did 
the  moment  he  took  up  a  pen.  He  gave  us  himself,  not  merely  his 
actions  and  thoughts,  and  mankind  has  always  been  peculiarly  grate- 
ful for  such  self-revelations.  The  saying  of  Buffon,  so  often  quoted, 
that  style  is  the  mat.,  has  never  received  a  better  exemplification  of 
its  truth  than  in  the  writings  of  PVanklin,  which  are  almost  literally 
and  truly  Franklin  himself.  He  has  done  more  than  give  us  a  mere 
autobiography.  Benvenuto  Cellini  did  that,  and  is  nevertheless 
thought  of  chiefly  as  an  artist.  Franklin  has  left  us  voluminous 
works,  which,  whether  in  their  respective  parts  they  deal  with 
science  or  politics  or  every-day  matters,  and  whether  or  not  we 
read  them  thoroughly  and  systematically,  are  nevertheless  as  com- 
plete and  perfect  an  exposition  of  an  interesting  character  as  can 
be  paralleled  in  literature.  Hence  it  is  that  while  Franklin  is  still 
for  most  people  a  sage,  just  as  Cellini  is  an  artist,  he  is  for  some 
who  have  learned  to  know  htm  through  his  self-delineating  works 
even  more  the  great  writer  than  he  is  the  great  philosopher  or  the 
great  statesman  and  public  servant. 

It  is  obvious  that  if  all  this  be  true,  the  secret  of  Franklin's 
power  as  a  writer  must  in  the  main  lie  elsewhere  than  in  the  mate- 
rials of  which  his  volumes  are  composed.  There  is  more  political 
philosophy  to  be  found  in  the  writings  of  some  of  Franklin's  com- 
patriots than  can  be  found  in  his ;  other  men  have  written  better 
letters,  other  men  have  composed  greater  scientific  monographs, 
and  ye!  in  many  of  these  cases  the  world  has  not  for  an  instant 
thought  it  could  discover  a  great  writer.  Nor  can  the  secret  of 
his  power  lie  merely  in  his  style  —  technically  speaking.  Good  as 
Franklin's  style  is,  it  would  be  possible  to  parallel  it  in  authors 
whom  nobody  has  thought  of  calling  really  great.  Perhaps  we 
shall  come  as  near  explaining  the  secret  by  saying  that  Franklin's 
power  comes  from  the  fact  that  he  revealed  a  fascinating  and  at 
the  same  time  great  character  by  means  of  a  pellucid  and  even^ 
style,  as  we  shall  by  any  other  explanation  we  can  offer.  FrankMn 
would  have  been  great  and  fascinating  if  a  Boswell  had  portrayed 
him  for  us ;  in  becoming  his  own  Boswell  he  has  enrolled  himself 


^...-MMMMM 


BKNJAMIN  FRANKLIN 


29 


Es,  are  not  the 
may  indirectly 
Jelibcrately  did 
IP  indirectly  did 
,  not  merely  his 
)eculiarly  grate- 

0  often  quoted, 
:mplification  of 
almost  literally 

1  give  us  a  mere 
is  nevertheless 
us  voluminous 
they  deal  with 
:ther  or  not  we 
theless  as  com- 
laracter  as  can 
Franklin  is  still 
he  is  for  some 
lineating  works 
ilosopher  or  the 

;t  of  Franklin's 
lan  in  the  mate- 
5  more  political 
Franklin's  com- 
;  written  better 
ic  monographs, 
t  for  an  instant 
n  the  secret  of 
iking.  Good  as 
el  it  in  authors 
it.  Perhaps  we 
that  Franklin's 
cinating  and  at 
llucid  and  even^ 
offer.  FrankHn 
I  had  portrayed 
:nrolled  himself 


fore"er  among  the  classical  writers,  not  merely  of  America,  but  of 
the  world. 

Descending  now  from  generals  to  particulars,  we  may  notice 
that  while  it  is  true  to  say  that  Addison  and  other  contemporary 
British  authors  did  much  to  form  Franklin's  style,  and  that  in 
many  of  the  forms  of  composition  he  undertook,  such  as  his  dia- 
logues, he  was  unquestionably  imitative,  it  is  equally  true  to  affirm 
that  he  was  rather  the  product,  nay,  the  epitome,  of  his  century, 
than  a  provincial  Briton,  and  that  in  many  most  important  respects 
he  was  as  true  an  American  as  Abraham  Lincoln  himself.  Frank- 
lin's shrewdness,  common  sense,  and  wit  are  much  more  American 
than  they  are  British  in  flavor,  and  his  evenly  balanced  indepen- 
dence, fearlessness,  and  dignity  are  racy  of  his  native  soil  His 
lack  of  the  highest  spirituality,  on  the  other  hand,  together  with 
his  somewhat  amusing  optimism,  his  wide-reaching,  practical  phil- 
anthropy, and  the  general  sanity  of  his  character,  belong  more  to 
his  century  than  to  his  race  or  country.  But  in  every  thought  and 
word  and  deed  of  his  life  he  was  never  anything  but  a  loyal  citizen 
of  the  land  from  which  he  was  so  long  exiled  by  necessity,  and  it 
is  the  merest  hypercriticism  that  would  contend  that  both  he  and 
Washington  were  anything  else  than  Americans  in  their  warp  and 
woof. 

The  chief  qualities  of  Franklin's  work  as  a  writer  have  all  been 
given  by  implication  in  the  preceding  paragraph.  Of  his  humor,  it 
must  suffice  to  say  that  it  holds  a  middle  range  between  the  subtlety 
of  Lamb's  and  the  obviousness  of  Artemus  Ward's.  Of  his  lack  not 
merely  of  spirituality,  but  even  the  conception  of  what  is  meant  by 
the  term,  the  attempt  to  amend  the  Lord's  Prayer  is  a  sufficiently 
familiar  example.  His  scheme  for  reaching  moral  perfection  throws 
a  ludicrous  light  upon  his  this-worldly  optimism,  while  his  general 
sanity  of  character  is  witnessed  to  by  hundreds  of  letters  and  by 
page  after  page  of  his  only  too  short  Autobiography.  Perhaps  his 
shrewdness,  his  common  sense,  and  his  wit  stand  out  singly  and  in 
unison  as  well  in  his  preface  to  Poor  Richard's  Almanac  as  any- 
where else,  but  they  are  obviously  such  basal  qualities  in  Frank- 
lin's character  that  they  are  never  absent  from  his  self-depictmg 
writings  of  whatever  form  and  type.  The  same  may  be  said  with 
regard  to  his  evenly  balanced  independence,  fearlessness,  and  dig- 


AMMstnii 


wMMnRMMiMiiiiWiiiiM 


MaaStoiaiia&atfiafir  — 


30 


AMF.klCAN  PROSE 


nily,  but  few  students  of  his  life  and  works  will  fail  to  associate 
these  (lualities  more  particularly  with  that  "most  consummate 
masterpiece  of  political  and  editorial  craftsmanship,"  to  (juote 
Professor  M.  C.'l'yler,  The  Examination  of  Dr.  Beniamin  Frank- 
lin, in  the  British  House  of  Commons,  Relative  to  the  Repeal  of 
the  American  Stamp  Act,  in  1766. 

In  conclusion,  we  may  notice,  with  regard  to  verbal  style,  that  a 
straightforward  clearness  is  Franklin's  most  characteristic  quality. 
He  writes  as  we  may  imagine  that  he  talked  when  at  his  best,  and 
for  the  subjects  he  treated  there  could  have  been  no  more  ideal 
style.     Here  and  there  a  word  or  phrase  may  betray  the  fact  that 
he  wrote  over  a  century  ago,  but  in  the  main,  it  is  distinctly  true  to 
say  that  his  style  "  reads  itself"  as  easily  as  that  of  any  master  of 
English.      We  may  readily  grant  that  Addison  helped  to  form 
Franklin's  style,  if  we  will  add  immediately  that,  in  all  probability, 
he  would  have  come  near  finding  it  for  himself  had  he  never  chanced 
when  a  boy  to  fall  under  the  fascinating  influence  of  the  Spectator. 
Short  sentences,  vigorous  phrases,  timely  words,  — these  Franklin 
could  not  have  heli^d  using,  simply  because  he  was  "  Rare  Hen 
Franklin."     He  probably  could  not  foresee  that  the  time  would  so 
soon  come  when  the  very  qualities  of  style  that  were  natural  to  him 
would  seem  to  jxjsterity  the  l)est  qualities  to  be  cultivated  ;  but  if 
he  had  had  all  the  I^tin  scholarship  of  Dr.  Johnson  and  all  the 
leisure  and  proi)ensity  to  formal  composition  that  an  academic  life 
affords,  he  would  surely  not  have  fallen  into  that  labored  pomposity 
and  that  dead  flatness  which  vitiate  so  much  eighteenth  century 
prose.     He  wrote  like  the  rounded,  vigorous,  sane  man  that  he 
was,  and  as  a  result  he  lives  for  us  as  few  do  of  our  fellow- mortals 
who,  in  the  words  of  Horace,  .ire  but  as  "  dust  and  a  shade." 

W.  P.  Trent 


■iBi'liiiwiiiiiirttiiiii 


BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN 


SI 


.  to  associate 
consiunmatc 
p,"  to  (jHote 
■./;«/«  Frank- 
the  Repeal  of 

il  style,  that  a 
sristic  qi'ility. 
t  his  best,  and 
\o  more  ideal 
y  the  fact  that 
itinctly  true  to 
any  master  of 
elped  to  form 
all  probability, 
never  chanced 
■  the  Spectator. 
these  Franklin 
iras  •'  Rare  Hen 
;  time  would  so 

natural  to  him 
tivated  ;  but  if 
on  and  all  the 
n  academic  life 
ared  pomposity 
iteenth  century 
e  man  that  he 

fellow-mortals 

a  shade." 

L  P.  Trent 


FRANKLIN'S  ENTRANCE   INTO   PHILADELPHIA 

I  HAVE  been  the  more  particular  in  this  description  of  my  jour- 
ney, and  shall  be  so  of  my  first  entry  into  that  city,  that  you  may 
in  your  mind  compare  such  unlikely  beginnings  with  the  figure  I 
have  since  made  there.  I  was  in  my  working  dress,  my  best 
clothes  being  to  come  round  by  sea.  I  was  dirty  from  my  jour- 
ney ;  my  pockets  were  stuff'd  out  with  shirts  and  stockings,  and  I 
knew  no  soul  nor  where  to  look  for  lodging.  I  was  fatigued  with 
travelling,  rowing,  and  want  of  rest,  I  was  very  hungry ;  and  n>y 
whole  stock  of  cash  consisted  of  a  Dutch  dollar,  and  about  a  shil- 
ling in  copper.  The  latter  I  gave  the  people  of  the  boat  for  my 
passage,  who  at  first  refus'd  it  on  account  of  my  rowing ;  but  I 
insisted  on  their  taking  it.  A  man  being  sometimes  more  gener- 
ous when  he  has  but  a  little  money  than  when  he  has  plenty,  per- 
haps thro'  fear  of  being  thought  to  have  but  little. 

Then  I  walked  up  the  street,  gazing  about  till  near  the  market- 
house  I  met  a  boy  with  bread.  I  had  made  many  a  meal  on  bread, 
and,  incpiiring  where  he  got  it,  I  went  immediately  to  the  baker's 
he  directed  me  to,  in  Second-street,  and  ask'd  for  bisket,  intending 
such  as  we  had  in  Boston ;  but  they,  it  seems,  were  not  made  in 
Philadelphia.  Then  I  asked  for  a  three-penny  loaf,  and  was  told 
they  had  none  such.  So  not  considering  or  knowing  the  differ- 
ence of  money,  and  the  greater  cheapness  nor  the  names  of  his 
bread,  I  bade  him  give  me  three-penny  worth  of  any  sort. 
He  gave  me,  accordingly,  three  great  puffy  rolls.  I  was  sur- 
pris'd  at  the  quantity,  but  took  it,  and  having  no  room  in  my 
pockets,  walk'd  off  with  a  roll  under  each  arm,  and  eating  the 
other.  Thus  I  went  up  Market-street  as  far  as  Fourth  street, 
passing  by  the  door  of  Mr.  Read,  my  future  wife's  father ;  when 
she,  standing  at  the  door,  saw  me,  and  thought  I  made,  as  I 
certainly  did,  a  most  awkward,  ridiculous  appearance.  Then  I 
turned  and  went  down  Chestnut-street  and  part  of  Walnut-street, 
eating  my  roll  all  the  way,  and,  coming  round,  found  my  elf 
again  at  Market-street  wharf,  near  the  boat  I  cime  in,  to  which  I 
went  for  a  draught  of  the  river  water ;  and  b^'ing  filled  with  one 
of  my  rolls,  gave  the  other  two  to  a  woman  and  her  child  that 


icaiSSM^ajpv,:, 


■niMM 


ifrtiifi  •■'ff-'-''  '••<-'-■-'■£'■ 


MHi 


3a 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


came  down  the  river  in  the  boat  with  us,  and  were  waiting  to  go 
farther. 

Thus  refreshed,  I  walked  again  up  the  street,  which  by  this  time 
had  many  clean-dressed  people  in  it,  who  were  all  walking  the 
same  way.  I  joined  them,  and  thereby  was  led  into  the  great 
meeting-house  of  thr  Quakers  near  the  market.  I  sat  down  among 
them,  and  after  looking  round  a  while  and  hearing  nothing  said, 
being  very  drowsy  thro'  labor  and  want  of  rest  the  preceding 
night,  I  fell  fast  asleq),  and  continu'd  so  till  the  meeting  broke 
up,  when  one  was  kind  enough  to  rouse  me.  This  was,  therefore, 
the  first  house  I  was  in,  or  slept  in,  in  Philadelphia. 

[AutoHogi-althy,  puhliiihed  in  London  in  1817.  'I'he  correct  text  wai  fa%K 
estalilishcd  by  John  liigclow,  who  obtained  poMctiion  of  the  original  n.^nu- 
script,  and  pul)lishe(l  by  J.  11.  I.ippincott  and  Co.,  Philadelphia,  in  1868.  It  is 
alio  included  in  Hlgelow's  Life  of  Henjamin  Franklin,  wriltin  by  I/imself, 
1874,  from  which  thi*  tclecfion  and  the  following  are  reprinted,  by  permiMion 
uf  thc'publithera,  J.  li.  Lippincott  &  Co.     Vol.  i,  pp,  125-127.] 


A  SCHEME   FOR   PERFECTION  '  ' 

It  was  about  this  time  I  conceiv'd  the  bold  and  arduous  pro- 
ject of  arriving  at  r  1  perfection.  I  wish'd  to  live  without  com- 
mitting any  fault  '  time;  I  would  conquer  all  that  either 
natural  inclination,  <.uaium,  or  company  might  lead  me  into.  As  I 
knew,  or  thought  I  knew,  what  was  right  and  wrong,  I  did  not  see 
why  I  might  not  always  do  the  one  and  avoid  the  other.  But  I 
soon  found  I  had  undertaken  a  task  of  more  difficulty  than  I  had 
imagined.  While  my  care  was  employ'd  in  guarding  against  one 
fault,  I  was  often  surprised  by  another ;  habit  took  the  advantage 
of  inattention ;  inclination  was  sometimes  too  strong  for  reason. 
I  concluded,  at  length,  that  the  mere  speculative  conviction  that 
it  was  our  interest  to  be  completely  virtuous,  was  not  sufficient  to 
prevent  our  slipping ;  and  that  the  contrary  habits  must  be  broken, 
and  good  ones  acquired  and  established,  before  we  can  have  any 
dependence  on  a  steady,  uniform  rectitude  of  conduct.  For  this 
purpose  I  therefore  contrived  the  following  method. 

In  the  various  enumerations  of  the  moral  virtues  I  had  met  with 
in  my  reading,  I  found  the  catalogue  more  or  less  numerous,  as 


■wfpwiwiwri 


BENJAMIN  FKANKUN 


33 


;  waiting  to  go 

:h  by  this  time 
ill  walking  the 
into  the  great 
It  down  among 
i;  nothing  said, 
the  preceding 
meeting  broke 
was,  therefore, 


rect  text  was  fint 
tie  uriginal  n.anu- 
lia,  ini868.  It  it 
ritttn  by  Himself, 
ted,  by  permiition 


i  arduous  pro- 
■e  without  corn- 
all  that  either 
me  into.  As  I 
g,  I  did  not  see 
!  other.  But  I 
:ulty  than  I  had 
ling  against  one 
k  the  advantage 
ong  for  reason, 
conviction  that 
not  sufficient  to 
must  be  broken, 
ire  can  have  any 
iduct.  For  this 
i. 

i  I  had  met  with 
ss  numerous,  as 


(IKTcrent  writers  included  more  or  fewer  ideas  under  the  same 
name.  Temperance,  for  example,  was  by  some  tunfmed  to  eating 
and  drinking,  while  by  others  it  was  extended  to  mean  the  mod- 
erating every  other  pleasure,  appetite,  inclination,  or  passion, 
bodily  or  mental,  even  to  our  avarice  and  ambition.  I  i)roposed 
to  myself,  for  the  sake  of  clearness,  to  use  rather  more  names,  with 
fewer  ideas  annex'd  to  each,  than  a  few  names  with  more  ideas ; 
and  I  included  under  thirteen  names  of  vii-tues  all  that  at  that  time 
occurr'd  to  me  as  necessary  or  desirable,  and  annexed  to  each  a 
short  precept,  which  fully  express'd  the  extent  I  gave  to  its  meaning. 
These  names  of  virtues,  with  their  precepts  were  : 

1.  Tkmpf.rance        % 
Eat  not  to  dullness  ;  drink  not  to  elevation.  " 

•  •  a.    SlI.KNCE 

Speak  not  but  what  may  benefit  others  or  yourself;  avoid  trifling 
conversation. 

'  3.  Ordrr       "^'"' 

Let  all  your  things  have  their  places ;  let  each  part  of  your  busi- 
ness have  its   ime. 

4.    RESOLiniON 

Resolve  to  perform  what  you  ought ;  perform  without  fail  what 
you  resolve.         ;;•  .  ■ 

5.  FRUGALrrv 

Make  no  expense  but  to  do  good  to  others  or  yourself;  i.e. 
waste  nothing. 

6.  Industry     > 

Lose  no  time ;  be  always  employ'd  in  something  useful ;  cut  off 
all  unnecessary  actions. 

7.  Sincerity         '' 

Use  no  hurtful  deceit ;  think  innocently  and  justly  j  and,  if  you 
speak,  speak  accordingly. 

8.  Justice 

Wrong  none  by  doing  injuries,  or  omitting  the  benefits  that  are 
your  duty.  ; 

»  ..■■■- 

D 


\ 


St^se;,. 


li" 


AMERICAN  PROSE 

9.  Moderation 

Avoid  extrearas ;  forbear  resenting  injuries  so  much  as  you  think 

they  deserve. 

10.  Cleanliness 

Tolerate  no  uncleanliness  in  body,  cloaths,  or  habitation. 

II.  Tranquillity 
Be  not  disturbed  at  trifles,  or  at  accidents  common  or  unavoid- 
able. 

12.  Chastftv 

13.  HuMiLrrv 

Imitate  Jesus  and  Socrates.  i,v 

My  intention  being  to  acquire  the  habitude  of  all  these  virtues, 
I  judg'd  it  would  be  well  not  to  distract  my  attention  by  attempt- 
ing the  whole  at  once,  but  to  fix  it  on  one  of  them  at  a  time ;  and, 
when  I  should  be  master  of  that,  then  to  proceed  to  another,  and 
so  on,  till  I  should  have  gone  thro'  the  thirteen ;  and,  as  the  pre- 
vious acquisition  of  some  might  facilitate  the  acquisition  of  certain 
others,  I  arrang'd  them  with  that  view.  13  they  stand  above. 
Temperance  first,  as  it  tends  to  procure  that  coolness  and  clear- 
ness of  head,  which  is  so  necessary  where  constant  vigilance  was  to 
be  kept  up,  and  guard  maintained  against  the  unremitting  attrac- 
tion of  ancient  habits,  and  the  force  of  perpetual  temptations. 
This  being  acquir'd  and  establish'd,  Silence  would  be  more  easy ; 
and  my  desire  being  to  gain  knowledge  at  the  same  time  that  I 
improv'd  in  virtue,  and  considering  that  in  conversation  it  was 
obtain'd  rather  by  the  use  of  the  ears  than  of  the  tongue,  and 
therefore  wishing  to  break  a  habit  I  was  ge'.ting  into  of  prattling, 
punning,  and  joking,  which  only  made  me  acceptable  to  trifling 
company,  I  gave  Silence  the  second  place.  This  and  the  next, 
Order,  I  expected  would  allow  me  more  time  for  attending  to  my 
project  and  my  studies.  Resolution,  once  become  habitual,  would 
keep  me  firm  in  my  endeavors  to  obtain  all  the  subsequent  virtues  ; 
Frugality  and  Industry  freeing  me  from  my  remaining  debt,  and 
producing  affluence  and  independence,  would  make  more  easy  the 


BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN 


35 


as  ycu  think 


tation. 


n  or  unavoid- 


practice  of  Sincerity  and  Justice,  etc.,  etc.  Conceiving  then,  that, 
agreeably  to  the  advice  of  Pythagoras  in  his  (iolden  Verses,  daily 
examination  would  be  necessary,  I  contrived  the  following  method 
for  conducting  that  examination. 

I  made  a  little  book,  in  which  I  allotted  a  page  for  each  of  the 
virtues.  I  rul'd  each  pa  ge  with  red  ink,  so  as  to  have  seven  col- 
umes,  one  for  each  day  of, the  week,  marking  each  column  with  a 
letter  for  the  day.  I  cross'd  these  columns  with  thirteen  red  lines, 
marking  the  beginning  of  each  line  with  the  fiiit  letter  of  one  of 
the  virtues,  on  which  line,  and  in  its  proper  column,  I  might  mark, 
by  a  little  black  spot,  every  fault  I  found  upon  examination  to 
have  bee- .  committed  respecting  that  virtue  upon  that  day. 


FORM  OF  THE  PAGES 


these  virtues, 
)n  by  attempt- 
t  a  time;  and, 
0  another,  and 
nd,  as  the  pre- 
ition  of  certain 
stand  above, 
ess  and  clear- 
igilance  was  to 
mitting  attrac- 
l1  temptations, 
be  more  easy ; 
»e  time  that  I 
srsation  it  was 
e  tongue,  and 
o  of  prattling, 
ible  to  trifling 
and  the  next, 
ttending  to  my 
labitual,  would 
;quent  virtues ; 
ling  debt,  and 
more  easy  the 


TEMPKBANCE 

EAT  NOT  TO  DULNESS; 
DRINK   NOT  TO  ELEVATION.               ' 

S. 

M. 

T. 

W. 

T. 

F. 

S. 

T. 

, 

S. 

• 

• 

• 

• 

O. 

•  • 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

_^- 

• 

• 

F. 

• 

« 

I. 

• 

S. 

J. 

M. 

C. 

T. 

C. 

H. 

■..     ■■  ■:^'" 

^  '-■■'-  .•';vi 


fcB^e^'! 


■  J|'!"^■^'.*^|,■^^»lls';J■  ^'t'M.fi')* 


l« 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


I  determined  to  give  a  week's  strict  attention  to  each  of  the 
virtues  successively.  Thus,  in  the  first  week,  my  great  guard  was 
to  avoid  every  the  least  offence  against  Temperance,  leaving  the 
other  virtues  to  their  ordinary  chance,  only  marking  every  evening 
the  faults  of  the  day.  Thus,  if  in  the  first  week  I  could  keep  my 
first  line,  marked  T,  clear  of  spots,  I  suppos'd  the  habit  of  that 
virtue  so  much  strengthen'd,  and  its  op[K>site  weaken'd,  that  I 
might  venture  extending  my  attention  to  include  the  next,  and  for 
the  following  week  keep  both  lines  clear  of  spots.  Proceeding 
thus  to  the  last,  I  could  go  thro'  a  coursu  compleat  in  thirteen 
weeks,  and  four  courses  in  a  year.  And  like  him  who,  having  a 
garden  to  weed,  does  not  attempt  to  eradicate  all  the  bad  herbs 
at  once,  which  would  exceed  his  reach  and  his  strength,  but  works 
on  one  of  the  beds  at  a  time,  and,  having  accomplish'd  the  first, 
proceeds  to  a  second,  so  I  should  have,  I  hoped,  the  encouraging 
pleasure  of  seeing  on  my  pages  the  progress  I  made  in  virtue,  by 
clearing  successively  my  lines  of  their  spots,  till  in  the  end,  by  a 
number  of  courses,  I  should  be  happy  in  viewing  a  clean  book, 
after  a  thirteen  weeks'  daily  examination. 

This  my  little  book  had  for  its  motto  these  lines  from  Addison's 
Cato: 

"  Here  will  I  hold.    If  there's  a  power  above  us  ' 

(And  that  there  is,  all  nature  cries  aloud 
Through  all  her  works),  He  must  delight  in  virtue ; 
And  that  which  he  delights  in  must  be  happy." 

Another  from  Cicero,  o"    '•  i, 

"O  vit-ie  Philosophia  dux!  O  virtutum  indagatrix  expultrixque  vitiorum! 
Unus  dies,  bene  et  ex  prxceptis  tuis  actus,  peccanti  immortalitati  est  ante- 
ponendus." 

{^Autobiography.    From  Bigelow's  Life,  vol.  i,  pp.  227-245.] 


THE  WAY  TO  WEALTH 


Courteous  Reader  :  I  have  heard  that  nothing  gives  an  authoi: 
so  great  pleasure  as  to  find  his  works  respectfully  quoted  by  others. 
Judge,  then,  how  much  I  must  have  been  gratified  by  an  incident 
I  am  going  to  relate  to  you.     I  stopped  my  horse  lately  where  a 


each  of  the 
;at  guard  was 
r,  leaving  the 
;very  evening 
)'iid  keep  my 
habit  of  that 
ken'd,  that  I 
next,  and  for 
Proceeding 
it  in  thirteen 
iho,  having  a 
he  bad  herbs 
;th,  but  works 
ih'd  the  first, 

encouraging 
;  in  virtue,  by 
the  end,  by  a 
.  clean  book, 

om  Addison's 


le; 


ixque  vitiorum! 
ulitati  est  ante- 


ves  an  authov 
:ed  by  others, 
y  an  incident 
ately  where  a 


BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN  |^ 

great  number  of  people  were  collected  at  an  auction  of  merchants' 
goods.  The  hour  of  the  sale  not  being  come,  they  were  convers- 
ing on  the  badness  of  the  times ;  and  one  of  the  company  called 
to  a  plain,  clean,  old  man,  with  white  locks :  "  Pray,  Father  Abra- 
ham, what  think  you  of  the  times?  Will  not  these  heavy  taxes 
quite  ruin  the  country  ?  How  shall  we  ever  be  able  to  pay  them  ? 
What  would  you  advise  us  to  do?"  Father  Abraham  stood  up 
and  replied :  "  If  you  have  my  advice,  I  will  give  it  to  you  in 
short ;  for  A  word  to  the  wise  is  enough,  as  Poor  Richard  says." 
They  joined  in  desiring  him  to  speak  his  mind,  and,  gathering 
round  him,  he  proceeded  as  follows : 

"  Friends,"  said  he,  "  the  taxes  are  indeed  very  heavy,  and  if 
those  laid  on  by  the  government  were  the  only  ones  we  had  to 
pay,  we  might  more  easily  discharge  them,  but  we  have  many 
others  and  much  more  grievous  to  some  of  us.  We  are  taxed 
twice  as  much  by  our  idleness,  three  times  as  much  by  our  pride, 
and  four  times  as  much  by  our  folly,  and  from  these  taxes  the 
commissioners  cannot  ease  or  deliver  us  by  allowing  an  abatement. 
However,  let  us  hearken  to  good  advice  and  something  may  be 
done  for  us ;  God  helps  them  that  help  themselves,  as  Poor  Richard 
says. 

"  I.  It  would  be  thought  a  hard  government  that  should  tax  its 
people  one-tenth  part  of  their  time,  to  be  employed  in  its  service, 
but  idleness  taxes  many  of  us  much  more  ;  sloth  by  bringing  on  dis- 
eases, absolutely  shortens  life.  Sloth,  like  rust,  consumes  faster  than 
labor  wears,  while  the  used  key  is  always  bright,  as  Poor  Richard 
says.  But  dost  thou  love  life,  then  do  not  squander  time,  for  that  is 
the  stuff  life  /  made  of,  as  Poor  Richard  says.  How  much  more 
than  is  necessary  do  we  spend  in  sleep,  forgetting  that  The  sleeping 
fox  catches  no  poultry,  and  that  There  will  be  sleeping  enough  in  the 
grave,  as  Poor  Richard  says. 

"  If  time  be  of  all  things  the  most  precious,  ivasting  time  must 
be,  as  Poor  Richard  says,  the  greatest  prodigality,  since,  as  he  else- 
where tells  us,  Lost  time  is  never  found  again,  and  what  loe  call 
time  enough  always  proves  little  enough.  Let  us  then  up  and  be 
doing,  and  doing  to  the  purpose ;  so  by  diligence  shall  we  do  more 
with  less  perplexity.  Sloth  makes  all  things  difficult,  but  industry 
all  things  easy ;  and  He  that  riseth  late  must  trot  all  day,  and  shall 


I 


•«{<;^ew- 


.m.miwi  m-'ifmemmm- 


38 


/IMERICAN  PROSE 


\y 


scarce  overtake  his  business  at  night;  while  Laziness  travels  so 
slowly  that  Poverty  soon  overtakes  him.  Drive  thy  business,  let 
not  that  ilrive  thee ;  and  Early  to  bed  and  early  to  rise,  makes  a 
man  healthy,  wealthy,  and  wise,  as  Poor  Richard  says. 

"  So  what  signifies  wishing  and  hoping  for  better  tir.ie^  ?  We 
may  make  these  times  better  if  we  bestir  ourselves.  Industry  need 
not  wish,  and  he  that  lives  upon  hopes  will  die  fasting.  There  are 
no  gains  ivithout  pains  ;  then  he',  hands, /or  I  have  no  lands; 
or  if  I  have  they  are  smartly  taxed.  He  that  hath  a  trade  hath  an 
estate,  and  he  that  hath  a  calling  hath  an  office  of  profit  and  honor, 
as  poor  Richard  says ;  bu!:  then  the  trade  must  be  worked  at  and 
the  calling  followed,  or  neither  the  estate  nor  the  office  will  enable 
us  to  pay  our  taxes.  If  we  are  industrious  we  shall  never  starve, 
for  At  the  working  man's  house  hunger  looks  in  but  dares  not  enter. 
Nor  will  the  bailiff  nor  the  constable  enter,  for  Industry  pays  debts, 
while  despair  increaseth  them.  What  though  you  have  found  no 
treasure,  nor  has  any  rich  relation  left  you  a  legacy.  Diligence  is 
the  mother  of  good  luck,  and  God  gives  all  things  to  industry.  Then 
plough  deep  while  sluggards  sleep,  and  you  shall  have  corn  to  sell 
and  to  keep.  Work  while  it  is  called  to-day,  for  you  know  not 
how  much  you  may  be  hindered  to-morrow.  One  to-day  is  worth 
tivo  to-morroivs,  as  Poor  Richard  says ;  and  further,  Ne^ier  leave 
that  till  to-morrow  which  you  can  do  to-day.  If  you  were  a  ser- 
vant would  you  not  be  ashamed  that  a  good  master  should  catch 
you  idle?  Are  you  then  your  own  master?  Be  ashamed  to  catch 
yourself  idle  when  there  is  so  much  to  be  done  for  yourself,  your 
family,  your  country,  and  your  king.  Handle  your  tools  without 
mittens ;  remember  that  The  cat  in  gloves  catches  no  mice,  as  Poor 
Richard  says.  It  is  true  there  is  much  to  be  done,  and  perhaps 
you  are  weakhanded,  but  stick  to  it  steadily  and  you  will  see  great 
effects;  for  Constant  dropping  wears  away  stones ;  and  By  dili- 
gence and  patience  the  mouse  ate  in  two  the  cable ;  and  Little 
strokes  fell  great  oaks. 

"  Methinks  I  hear  some  of  you  say,  '  Must  a  man  afford  himself 
no  leisure?'  I  will  tell  thee,  my  friend,  what  Poor  Richard  says : 
Employ  thy  time  well,  if  thou  meanest  to  gain  leisure  ;  and,  since 
thor  art  not  sure  of  a  minute,  throw  not  away  an  hour.  Leisure 
is  time  for  doing  something  useful ;  this  leisure  the  diligent  man 


■--»i«.*. . 


r-      ' 


!«>». 


BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN 


n 


s  travels  so 
business,  let 
ise,  makes  a 

ti!'.ieS?  We 
ndustry  need 
There  are 
'e  no  lands  ; 
ade  hath  an 
t  and  honor, 
irkcd  at  and 
e  will  enable 
ever  starve, 
'es  not  enter, 
y  pays  debts, 
/e  found  no 

Diligence  is 
istry.  Then 
corn  to  sell 
u  know  not 
lay  is  worth 
Naier  leave 

were  a  ser- 
Iiould  catch 
led  to  catch 
aurself,  your 
3ols  without 
lice,  as  Poor 
md  perhaps 
'ill  see  great 
nd  By  dili- 
and  Little 

brd  himself 
chard  says : 
,•  and,  since 
tr.  Leisure 
liligent  man 


will  obtain,  but  the  lazy  man  never  ;  for  A  life  of  leisure  and  a  life 
of  laziness  are  two  things.  Many,  without  labor,  would  live  by 
their  wits  only,  but  they  break  for  want  of  stock  ;  whereas  industry 
gives  comfort  and  plenty  and  respect.  Fly  pleasures,  and  they  will 
follow  you.  The  J-'igent  spinner  has  a  large  shift;  and  now  I  have 
a  sheep  and  a  cow,  everybody  bids  me  good  morrow. 

"II.  But  with  our  industry  we  must  likewise  be  steady,  settled, 
and  careful,  and  oversee  our  own  affairs  with  our  own  eyes,  and 
not  trust  too  much  to  others ;  for,  as  Poor  Richard  says : 

I  never  iaw  an  oft-removed  tree 

Nor  yet  an  oft-removed  family. 

That  throve  so  well  as  those  that  settled  be. 

"  And  again,  Three  removes  are  as  bad  as  afire  ;  and  again,  Keep 
thy  shop,  and  thy  shop  will  keep  thee ;  and  again  :  If  you  would 
your  business  done,  go  ;  if  not,  send.    And  again  : 

■■;V   '■        He  that  by  the  plough  would  thrive. 
Himself  must  eitner  hold  or  drive. 

And  again,  The  eye  of  a  master  tvill  do  more  work  than  both  his 
hand-  •  w^  a^^ain,  IVant  of  care  does  us  more  damage  than  want 
of  knffi^ledge ;  and  again.  Not  to  oversee  workmen  is  to  leave  them 
your  purse  open.  Trusting  too  much  to  others'  care  is  the  ruin  of 
many  ;  for,  In  the  affairs  of  this  world  men  are  saved,  not  by  faith, 
but  by  the  want  of  it;  but  a  man's  own  care  is  profitable;  for.  If 
you  would  have  a  faithful  servant,  and  one  that  you  like,  serve 
yourself.  A  little  neglect  may  breed  great  mischief;  for  want  of  a 
nail  the  shoe  was  lost;  for  want  of  a  shoe  the  horse  was  lost;  and 
for  want  of  a  horse  the  rider  was  ».  ^/,  being  overtaken  and  slain 
by  the  enemy  ;  all  for  want  of  a  little  care  about  a  horse-shoe  nail. 
"  III  So  much  for  industry,  my  friends,  and  attention  to  one's 
own  business ;  but  to  these  we  must  add  frugality,  if  we  would 
make  our  industry  more  certainly  successful.  A  man  may,  if  he 
knows  not  how  to  save  as  he  gejs,  keep  his  nose  all  his  life  to  the 
grindstone,  and  die  not  worth  a  groat  at  last.  A  fat  kitchen  makes 
a  lean  will;  and 

Many  estates  are  spent  in  the  getting, 

Siince  women  for  tea  forsook  spinning  and  knitting, 

And  men  for  punch  forsook  hewing  and  splitting. 


^1 


if 

1 


f 


i 


40  AMERICAN  PROSE 

If  you  would  be  wealthy,  think  of  saving  as  well  as  of  getting.  The 
Indies  have  not  made  Spain  rich,  because  her  outgoes  are  greater 
than  her  incomes. 

"  Away  then  with  your  expensive  follies,  and  you  will  not  then 
have  so  much  cause  to  complain  of  hard  times,  heavy  taxes,  and 
chargeable  families  ;  for 

Women  and  wine,  gamt  and  dtceit. 
Make  the  wealth  small  and  the  want  great. 

And  further,  What  maintains  one  vice  would  bring  up  tivo  children. 
You  may  think  perhaps  that  a  little  tea,  or  a  little  punch  now  and 
then,  diet  a  little  more  costly,  clothes  a  little  finer,  and  a  little 
entertainment  now  and  then,  can  be  no  great  matter ;  but  remem- 
ber, Many  a  little  makes  a  mickle.  Beware  of  little  expenses  :  A 
small  leak  will  sink  a  great  ship,  as  Poor  Richard  says ;  and  again. 
Who  dainties  lo7>e,  shall  beggars  prove  ;  and  moreover,  Fools  make 
feasts  and  wise  men  eat  them. 

"  Here  you  are  all  got  together  at  this  sale  of  fineries  and  knick- 
knacks.  You  call  them  goods ;  but  if  you  do  not  take  care  they 
will  prove  evils  to  some  of  you.  You  expect  they  will  be  sold 
cheap,  and  perhaps  they  may  for  less  than  they  cost ;  but  if  you 
have  no  occasion  for  them  they  must  be  dear  to  you.  Remember 
what  Poor  Richard  says  :  Buy  what  thou  hast  no  need  of,  and  ere 
long  thou  shall  sell  thy  necessaries.  And  again,  At  a  great  penny- 
worth pause  a  while.  He  means,  that  perhaps  the  cheapness  is 
apparent  only,  and  not  real ;  or  the  bargain,  by  straitening  thee 
in  thy  business,  may  do  thee  more  harm  than  good.  For  in  an- 
other place  ae  says.  Many  have  been  ruined  by  buying  good  penny- 
worths. Again,  //  is  foolish  to  lay  out  money  in  a  purchase  of 
repentance;  an-:'  yet  this  folly  is  practised  every  day  at  auctions 
for  want  of  mincing  the  Almanac.  Many  a  one,  for  the  sake  of 
finery  on  the  bark,  have  gone  with  a  hungry  belly  and  half-starved 
their  families.  Silks  and  satins,  scarlet  and  velvets,  put  out  the 
kitchen  fire,  as  Poor  Richard  says. 

"  These  are  not  the  necessaries  of  life ;  they  can  scarcely  be 
called  the  conveniences ;  and  yet,  only  because  they  look  pretty, 
how  many  want  to  have  them  !  By  these  and  other  extravagances 
the  genteel  are  reduced  to  poverty  and  forced  to  borrow  of  those 


r*-- 


WEf" 


MMWIM 


BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN 


*l 


f  getting.    The 
ts  are  greater 

will  not  then 
vy  taxes,  and 


'  hvo  children. 
inch  now  and 
,  and  a  little 
;  but  remem- 
expenses :  A 
s ;  and  again, 
r,  Fools  make 

es  and  knick- 
ke  care  they 

will  be  sold 

;  but  if  you 

Remember 

d  of,  and  ere 

great  penny- 
cheapness  is 
litening  thee 
For  in  an- 
",  good  penny- 
purchase  of 
r  at  auctions 

the  sake  of 
I  half-starved 

put  out  the 

scarcely  be 
look  pretty, 
xtravagances 
ow  of  those 


whom  they  formerly  despised,  but  who,  through  industry  and  fru- 
gality, have  maintained  their  standing ;  in  which  case  it  appears 
plainly  that  A  ploughman  on  his  legs  is  higher  than  a  gentleman  on 
his  knees,  as  Poor  Richard  says.  Perhaps  they  have  had  a  small 
estate  left  them,  which  they  knew  not  the  getting  of:  they  think, 
It  is  day,  and  will  never  be  night;  that  a  little  to  be  spent  out  of 
so  much  is  not  worth  minding  ;  but  Always  taking  out  of  the  meal- 
tub,  and  never  putting  in,  soon  comes  to  the  bottom,  as  Poor  Rich- 
ard says ;  and  then.  When  the  well  is  dry,  they  know  the  worth 
of  water.  But  this  they  might  have  known  before,  if  they  had 
taken  his  advice.  If  you  would  know  the  value  of  money,  go  and 
try  to  borrow  some;  for  he  that  goes  a  borrowing  goes  a  sorrowing, 
as  Poor  Richard  says  j  and  indeed  so  does  he  that  lends  to  such 
people,  when  he  goes  to  get  it  again.  Poor  Dick  further  advises 
and  says,  — 

Fond  pride  of  dress  is  sure  a  very  curse  ;  • 

Ere  fancy  you  consult,  consult  your  purse.  .    . 

And  again.  Pride  is  as  loud  a  beggar  as  Want,  and  a  great  deal 
more  saucy.  When  you  have  bought  one  fine  thing  you  must  buy 
ten  more,  that  your  appearance  may  be  all  c '  a  piece ;  but  Poor 
Dick  says,  //  is  easier  to  suppress  the  first  de  re  than  to  satisfy  all 
that  follow  it.  And  it  is  as  truly  folly  for  i..e  poor  to  ape  the  rich, 
as  for  the  frog  to  swell  in  order  to  equal  the  ox. 

Vessels  large  may  venture  more, 

But  little  boats  should  keep  near  shore. 

It  is,  however,  a  folly  soon  punished ;  for,  as  Poor  Richard  says, 
P/ide  that  dines  on  vanity  sups  on  contempt.  Pride  breakfasted 
with  Plenty,  dined  with  Poverty,  and  supped  with  Infamy.  And 
after  all,  of  what  use  i  this  pride  of  appearance,  for  which  so  much 
is  risked,  so  much  is  suffered?  It  cannot  promote  health,  nor  ease 
pain;  it  makes  no  increase  of  merit  in  the  person;  it  creates 
envy ;  it  hastens  misfortune. 

"  But  what  madness  must  it  be  to  run  in  debt  for  these  super- 
fluities? We  are  offered  by  the  terms  of  this  sale  six  months' 
credit ;  and  that,  perhaps,  has  induced  some  of  us  to  attend  it, 
because  we  cannot  spare  the  ready  money,  and  hope  now  to  be 
fine  without  it.    But,  ah !  think  what  you  do  when  you  run  in 


t* 

M 


42 


AMERICAN  P/iOSE 


f:-. 


.ytv 


debt ;  yoii  give  to  another  power  over  your  liberty.  If  you  can. 
not  pay  at  the  time,  you  will  be  ashamed  to  see  your  creditor ; 
you  will  be  in  fear  when  you  speak  to  him ;  you  will  make  poor, 
pitiful,  sneaking  excuses,  and  by  degrees  come  to  lose  your  ve- 
racity, and  sink  into  base,  downright  lying ;  for,  T/ie  jecond  vice  is 
lying,  the  first  is  running  into  debt,  as  Poor  Richard  says ;  and 
again,  to  the  same  purpose,  Lying  rides  upon  Debt's  back;  whereas 
a  free-born  Englishman  ought  not  to  be  ashamed  or  afraid  to  see 
or  speak  to  any  man  living.  But  poverty  often  deprives  a  man 
of  all  spirit  and  virtue.  //  is  hard  for  an  empty  bag  to  stand  up- 
right. 

"  What  would  you  think  of  that  prince  or  of  that  government  who 
should  issue  an  edict  forbidding  you  to  dress  like  a  gentleman  or 
gentlewoman,  on  pain  of  imprisonment  or  servitude  ?  Would  you 
not  say  that  you  are  free,  have  a  right  to  dress  as  you  please,  and 
that  such  an  edict  would  be  a  breach  of  your  privileges,  and  such 
a  government  tyrannical  ?  And  yet  you  are  about  to  put  yourself 
under  such  tyranny  when  you  run  in  debt  for  such  dress !  Your 
creditor  has  authority,  at  his  pleasure,  to  deprive  you  of  your  lib- 
erty by  confining  you  in  gaol  till  you  shall  be  able  to  pay  him. 
When  you  have  got  your  bargain  you  may  perhaps  think  little 
of  payment ;  but,  as  Poor  Richard  says.  Creditors  have  better 
memories  than  debtors  ;  creditors  are  a  superstitious  sect,  great  ob- 
servers of  set  days  and  times.  The  day  comes  round  before  you 
are  aware,  and  the  demand  is  made  before  you  are  prepared  to 
satisfy  it ;  or,  if  you  bear  your  debt  in  mind,  the  term,  which  at 
first  seemed  so  long,  will,  as  it  lessens,  appear  extremely  short. 
Time  will  seem  to  have  added  wings  to  his  heels  as  well  as  his 
shoulders.  Those  have  a  short  Lent  who  owe  money  to  be  paid  at 
Easter.  At  present,  perhaps,  you  may  think  yourselves  in  thriving 
circumstances,  and  that  you  can  bear  a  little  extravagance  without 
injury,  but  — 

For  age  and  want  save  while  you  may  ; 

No  morning  sun  lasts  a  whole  day. 

Gain  may  be  temporary  and  uncertain,  but  ever,  while  you  live, 
expense  is  constant  and  certain ;  and  //  is  easier  to  build  tivo 
chimneys  than  to  keep  one  in  fuel,  as  poor  Richard  says ;  so, 
Rather  go  to  bed  supperless  than  rise  in  debt. 


1/  lil*  ll     1 1  Willi 


rrrrr: 


MHtts. 


If  you  can. 
our  creditor; 
1  make  poor, 
lose  your  ve- 
■itcond  vice  is 
rd  says;  and 
'ick;  whereas 
afraid  to  see 
)rives  a  man 
to  stand  up- 

ernment  who 
;entleman  or 

Would  you 
I  please,  and 
es,  and  such 
put  yourself 
ress !     Your 

of  your  lib- 
to  pay  him. 

tliink  little 
have  better 
ct,  great  ob- 

before  you 
prepared  to 
n,  which  at 
mely  short, 
well  as  his 

be  paid  at 

in  thriving 
»ce  without 


you  live, 
build  two 
says;   so, 


BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN 

Get  what  you  tan,  and  what  you  get  hold; 

'  Tis  lit  stone  that  wiU  turn  a// your  lead  into  gold. 


0 


And,  when  you  have  got  the  Philosopher's  stone,  sure  you  will 
no  longer  complain  of  bad  times  or  the  difficulty  of  paying  taxes. 

"  IV.  This  doctrine,  my  friends,  is  reason  and  wisdom ;  but, 
after  all,  do  not  depend  too  much  upon  your  own  industry  and 
frugality  and  prudence,  though  excellent  things,  for  they  may  all 
be  blasted,  without  the  blessing  of  Heaven ;  and  therefore  ask 
that  blessing  humbly,  and  be  not  uncharitable  to  those  that  at 
present  seem  to  want  it,  but  comfort  and  help  them.  Remember 
Job  suffered  and  was  afterwards  prosperous. 

"  And  now,  to  conclude.  Experience  keeps  a  dear  school,  but  fools 
will  learn  in  no  other,  as  Poor  Richard  says,  and  scarce  in  that, 
for  it  is  true  We  may  give  adince,  but  we  cannot  give  conduct. 
However,  remember  this.  They  that  won't  be  counselled,  cannot  be 
helped;  and  further,  that  If  you  will  not  hear  reason,  she  will  surely 
rap  your  knuckles,  as  Poor  Richard  says." 

Thus  the  old  gentleman  ended  his  harangue.  The  people  heard 
it  and  approved  the  doctrine ;  and  immediately  practised  the  con- 
trary, just  as  if  it  had  been  a  common  sermon ;  for  the  auction 
opened,  and  they  began  to  buy  extravagantly.  I  found  the  good 
man  had  thoroughly  studied  my  Almanacs,  and  digested  all  I  had 
dropped  on  these  topics  during  the  course  of  twenty-five  years. 
The  "requent  mention  he  made  of  me  must  have  tired  any  one 
else,  but  my  vanity  was  wonderfully  delighted  with  it,  though  I 
was  conscious  that  not  a  tenth  part  of  the  wisdom  was  my  own 
which  he  ascribed  to  me,  but  rather  the  gleanings  that  I  had 
made  of  the  sense  of  all  ages  and  nations.  However,  I  resolved 
to  be  the  better  for  the  echo  of  it,  and  though  I  had  at  first 
determined  to  buy  stuff  for  a  new  coat,  I  went  away  resolved  to 
wear  my  old  one  a  little  longer.  Reader,  if  thou  wilt  do  the  same, 
thy  profit  will  be  as  great  as  mine.     I  am,  as  ever,  thine  to  serve 

'  Richard  Saunders 

[Commonly  known  as  The  Way  to  Wealth,  from  the  last  of  Franklin's  series 
of  almanacs :  Poor  Richard  Improved,  being  an  Almanac  .  .  .  for  the  year  of 
our  Lord  1758.  The  text  followed,  with  the  permission  of  the  publishers, 
G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons,  is  that  of  Bigelow's  Works,  vol.  i,  pp.  441-452.] 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


TO  MR.   STRAHAN 

PHii.ADKi.rinA,  s  Fuly,  1775, 
Mr.  Strahan  :  -  You  are  a  member  of  Parliament,  and  one  of 
that  majority  which  has  doomed  my  country  to  destruction.  You 
ha^x  begun  to  burn  our  towns,  and  murder  our  people.  Uok  upon 
your  hands;  they  are  staine.1  with  the  blood  of  your  relation  I 
You  and  I  were  long  friends ;  you  are  now  my  enemy,  and  I  am, 

Yours, 


TO  JOSEPH  PRIESTLEY 

Phii.adk.uhi A,  3  October,  1775. 
Dear  Sir: -I  am  to  set  out  to-morrow  for  the  camp,  and 
having  just  heard  of  this  opportunity,  can  only  write  a  line  to  sa^ 
that  I  am  well  and  hearty.  Tell  our  dear  good  friend.  Dr.  Price 
who  sometimes  has  his  doubts  and  despondencies  about  our  firm- 
ness, that  America  is  determined  and  unanimous;  a  very  few 
Tones  and  placemen  excepted,  who  will  probably  soon  export 
themselves.     Britain,  at  the  expense  of  three  millions,  has  kiMed 

thousand  n  7^  Jf'y/«"k^«  ^^is  campaign,  which  is  twenty 
thousand  pounds  a  head;  and  at  Bunker's  Hill  she  gained  a  mile 
o  ground,  ha  f  of  which  she  lost  again  by  our  taking  post  on 
Ploughed  Hill.  During  the  same  time  sixty  thousand  children 
have  been  bom  in  America.  From  this  data  his  mathematical 
head  will  easily  calculate  the  time  and  expense  necessary  to  kill  us 
all  and  conquer  our  whole  territory.     My  sincere  respects  to 


[  Works,  vol.  V.  pp.  539-540.] 


B.  Frankun 


S  July.  1775- 
I,  and  one  of 
uction.  You 
Ix)ok  upon 
ur  relations  I 
',  and  I  am, 

Frankmn 


ober,  1775. 

camp,  and, 
i  line  to  say 
I,  Dr.  Price, 
ut  our  firm- 
a  very  few 
ioon  export 
i,  has  killed 
1  is  twenty 
ined  a  mile 
ig  post  on 
id  children 
itheraatical 
ry  to  kill  us 

ts  to , 

n  ever  your 

RANKUN 


r 


■m.i. 


I 


BENJAMIN  FRANKUN 


A   DIALOGUE   BETWEEN    HRITAIN,  FRANCE,   SPAIN, 
HOLLAND,   SAXONY,   AND   AMERICA 

Britain.  —  Sister  of  Spain,  I  have  a  favor  to  ask  of  you.  My  sub- 
jects in  America  are  disobedient,  and  I  am  about  to  chastise  them  ; 
I  beg  you  will  not  furnish  them  with  any  arms  or  ammunition. 

Spain.  —  Have  you  forgotten,  then,  that  when  my  subjects  in 
the  Low  Countries  rebelled  against  me,  you  not  only  furnished 
them  with  military  stores,  but  joined  them  with  an  army  and  a 
fleet?  I  wonder  how  ou  can  have  the  impudence  to  aiik  such 
a  favor  of  me,  or  the  folly  to  expect  it ! 

Britain.  —  You,  my  dear  sister  France,  will  surely  not  refuse  me 
this  favor. 

France.  —  Did  you  not  assist  my  rebel  Huguenots  with  a  fleet 
and  an  army  at  Rochelle?  And  have  you  not  lately  aided  pri- 
vately and  sneakingly  my  rebel  subjects  in  Corsica?  And  do  you 
not  at  this  instant  keep  their  chief  pensioned,  and  ready  to  head 
a  fresh  revolt  there,  whenever  you  can  find  or  make  an  oppor- 
tunity ?     Dear  sister,  you  must  be  a  little  silly  ! 

Britain.  —  Honest  Holland  !  You  see  it  is  remembered  I  was 
once  your  friend ;  you  will  therefore  be  mine  on  this  occasion. 
I  know,  indeed,  you  are  accustomed  to  smuggle  with  these  rebels 
of  mine.  I  will  wink  at  that ;  sell  them  as  much  tea  as  you  please, 
to  enervate  the  rascals,  since  they  will  not  take  it  of  me ;  but  for 
God's  sake  don't  supply  them  with  any  arms  ! 

Holland.  —  'Tis  true  you  assisted  me  against  Philip,  my  tyrant 
of  Spain,  but  have  T  not  assisted  you  against  one  of  your  tyrants ; 
and  enabled  you  to  expel  him  ?  Surely  that  account,  as  we  mer- 
chants say,  is  balanced,  and  I  am  nothing  in  your  debt.  I  have 
indeed  some  complaints  against >'<'»,  for  endeavoring  to  starve  me 
by  your  Navigation  Acts ;  but,  being  peaceably  disposed,  I  do  not 
quarrel  with  you  for  that.  I  shall  only  go  on  quietly  with  my  own 
business.  Trade  is  my  profession ;  'tis  all  I  have  to  subsist  on. 
And,  let  me  tell  you,  I  shall  make  no  scruple  (on  the  prospect  of 
a  good  market  for  that  commodity)  even  to  send  my  ships  to  Hell 
and  supply  the  Devil  with  brimstone.  For  you  must  know,  I  can 
insure  in  London  against  the  burning  of  my  sails. 


AMERICAN  PNOSF. 


»?■■. 


America  to  Jintain.  —  Why,  you  old  l)l(X)clthirsty  bully  !  You, 
who  have  been  everywhere  vaunting  your  own  prowess,  and  dc- 
fiiniing  the  Americans  as  poltroons  !  You,  who  have  boasted  of 
being  able  to  march  over  all  their  l)ellies  with  a  single  regiment  I 
You,  who  by  fraud  have  possessed  yourself  of  their  strongest  for- 
tress, and  all  the  arms  they  had  stored  up  in  it  !  You,  who  have  a 
disciplined  army  in  their  country,  intrenched  to  the  teeth,  and  pro- 
vided with  everything  !  Uo  you  riui  at)out  begging  all  Kurope  not 
to  supply  those  poor  people  with  a  little  powder  and  shot?  Do 
you  mean,  then,  to  fall  u|)on  them  naked  and  unarmed,  and 
butcher  them  in  cold  blood  ?  Is  this  your  courage  ?  Is  this  your 
magnanimity? 

Britain.  —  Oh  !  you  wicked  —  Whig  —  Presbyterian  —  Serpent ! 
Have  you  the  impudence  to  appear  before  me  after  all  your  dis- 
obedience ?  Surrender  immediately  all  your  liberties  and  prop- 
erties into  my  hands,  or  I  will  cut  you  to  pieces.  Was  it  for 
this  that  I  planted  your  country  at  so  great  an  expense  ?  That  I 
protected  you  in  your  infancy,  and  defended  you  against  all  your 
enemies? 

America.  —  I  shall  not  surrender  my  liberty  and  property,  but 
with  my  life.  It  is  not  true,  that  my  country  was  planted  at  your 
expense.  Your  own  records  refute  that  falsehood  to  your  face. 
Nor  did  you  ever  afford  me  a  man  or  a  shilling  to  defend  me 
against  the  Indians,  the  only  enemies  I  had  upon  my  own  account. 
But,  when  you  have  quarrelletl  with  all  Europe,  and  drawn  me 
with  you  into  all  your  broils,  then  you  value  yourself  upon  pro- 
tectin<5  mt  f.'oii  the  enemies  you  have  made  for  me.  I  have  no 
natural  cause  of  difference  with  Spain,  France,  or  Holland,  and 
yet  by  turns  I  iiave  joined  with  \  on  in  wars  against  them  all.  You 
would  not  suffer  me  to  make  or  keep  a  separate  peace  with  any  of 
them,  though  I  might  easily  have  done  it  to  great  advantage. 
Does  your  protecting  me  in  those  wars  give  you  a  right  to  fleece 
me?  If  so,  as  I  fought  for  you,  as  well  as  you  for  me,  it  gives  me 
a  proportionable  right  to  fleece  you.  What  think  you  of  an 
American  law  to  make  a  monopoly  of  you  and  your  commerce,  as 
you  have  done  by  your  laws  of  me  and  mine  ?  Content  yourself 
with  that  monopoly  if  you  are  wise,  and  learn  justice  if  you  would 
be  respected  ! 


Ms.- 


f: 


'"-■'S== 


^■pMiiir*ijMiy>j.iw«iiig|^iiyi'»-- 


■ttribM 


BENJAMIN  FRANK  1.1  N 


47 


f  bully  !  Ymi, 
)wcss,  and  dc- 
vc  boasted  of 
igle  regiment ! 
strongest  for- 
111,  who  have  a 
teeth,  and  pro- 
all  Europe  not 
id  shot?  Do 
unarmed,  and 
Is  this  your 

in  —  Serpent  1 
r  all  your  dis- 
ies  and  prop- 
Was  it  for 
nse?  That  I 
{ainst  all  your 

property,  but 
mted  at  your 
to  your  face, 
o  defend  me 
own  account, 
id  drawn  me 
ilf  upon  pro- 
I  have  no 
Holland,  and 
em  all.  You 
;  with  any  of 
it  advantage, 
ight  to  fleece 
!,  it  gives  me 
you  of  an 
ommerce,  as 
ent  yourself 
if  you  would 


Britain.  —  You  impudent !  Am  I  not  your  mother  coun- 
try?    \:s  not  that  a  sufficient  title  to  your  respect  and  obedience? 

Saxony.  —Mother  country  !  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  What  respect  have 
you  the  frort  to  claim  as  a  mother  country?  You  know  that  /ana 
your  mothe  country,  and  yet  you  pay  me  none.  Nay,  it  is  but 
the  other  dav  that  you  hired  ruffians  to  rob  me  on  the  highway 
and  burn  my  house  !  For  shame  !  Hide  your  face  and  hoUl  your 
tongue  !  If  you  continue  this  conduct,  you  will  make  yourself  the 
contempt  of  Europe  ! 

Britain,  —  O  I-ord  !     Where  are  my  friends? 

France,  Spain,  No/land,  ami  Saxony  all  together.  —  Friends  ! 
Believe  us,  you  have  none,  nor  ever  will  have  any,  till  you  mend 
your  manners.  How  can  we  who  are  your  neighbors  have  any 
regard  for  you,  or  expect  any  equity  from  you,  should  your  power 
increase,  when  we  see  how  basely  and  unjustly  you  have  used  both 
your  o^vn  mother  and  your  oivn  children  ? 

[Works,  \a\.  y\,  Yi^.  1\%-122.] 


-  '^''^'^'i--    - ,'- 


MMilpqi 


i^ 


I 


GEORGE   WASHINGTON       ' 

[George  Washington  was  born,  of  old  English  stock,  in  Westmoreland  Co 

lT^'i;,T    A     ?'  '"'".  ""^  "■"'  '"■°"^*''  "P  '^'^'^'^y  "^y  ^'''  ="°'h".  received  a 
limited   education,  and  was  early  thrown  upon  his  own  resources  as  a  sur- 

IrlnL  If       ^aTTTu    °^'"'"'  ■^■"'^''''°^  '^^°"ght  him  into  contact  with 
frontier  lifr  and  ed  finally  to  his  taking  an  active  part  in  the  campaigns  against 
the  trench  and  Indians  for  the  possession  of  the  Ohio  region.    Afttr  his  mar- 
riage with  Mrs  Custis  in  1759.  he  settled  at  Mt.  Vernon  as  a  prosperous  planter 
Having  sympathized  from  the  first  with  the  colonies  in  their  contentions  with 
the  mother  country,  he  was  made  a  member  of  the  first  Continental  Congress 
and  in  1775  became  Commander-in-chief  of  the  American  forces.     It  is  now 
generally  acknowledged  that  his  prudence,  determination,  and  military  skill 
were  the  greatest  single  factor  in  bringing  the  Revolution  to  a  successful  issue. 
After  the  close  of  the  war  he  retired  to  Mt.  Vernon,  where  he  took  an  active 
interest  in  the  efforts  made  to  strengthen  the  union  of  states.     He  presided 
over  the  Convention  of  1 787,  and  was  subsequently  elected  first  President  under 
the  new  constitution.  He  served  with  great  wisdom  for  two  terms  (178a-, 70,^ 
declining  reelection  in  his  famous  FarewM  AMress.     After  his  retirement  he 
was  appointed  lieutenant-general  of  the  American  forces,  in  view  of  the  war 
hat  seemed  impending  with  France.     He  lived  only  a  year  longe.-,  dying  of 
laryngitis  and  bad  medical  attention,  on  Dec.  14.  1799.    The  best  edhion 
of  his  works  IS  that  of  W.  C.  Ford,  in  fourteen  volumes;   but  that  of  I.,e3 
bparks.  in  twelve  volumes,  is  also  valuable.    The  best  biography,  in  moderate 
compass,  IS  that  by  Henry  Ckbot  Lodge.  moaerate 

The  appearance  of  Washington's  name  in  a  volume  devoted  to 
the  chief  prose-writers  of  America  seems  to  need  some  explanation 
He  was  extremely  diffident  of  his  own  powers  as  a  writer,  and 
althoiigh  his  fame  has  been  growing  steadily  for  over  a  century 
few  of  his  admners  have  ever  ventured  to  claim  for  him  the  honors 
of  authorship.  His  Fareweii  Address  has  been  assigned  in  con- 
siderable part  to  Hamilton,  and  at  least  one  editor  of  his  letters 
has  felt  obliged  to  correct  his  orthography  and  to  elevate  his  dic- 
tion. His  style,  when  at  its  best,  possesses  little  grace  or  variety  • 
his  voluminous  writings  arc  read  by  few  who  are  not  historical 
students ;  he  does  not  need  the  added  prestige  of  being  considered 

48 


GEORGE    WASHINGTON 


49 


stmoreland  Co., 
her,  received  a 
lurces  as  a  sur- 
3  contact  with 
npaigns  against 
After  his  mar- 
iperous  planter, 
intentions  with 
ental  Congress, 
ces.     It  is  now 
I  military  skill 
uccessful  issue, 
took  an  active 
He  presided 
'resident  under 
i (1789-1797), 
retirement  he 
ew  of  the  war 
ige.-,  dying  of 
e  best  edition 
that  of  Jared 
1,  in  moderate 


devoted  to 
explanation, 
writer,  and 
a  century, 
the  honors 
led  in  con- 
F  his  letters 
ate  his  dic- 
or  variety ; 
t  historical 
considered 


a  man  of  letters,  even  if  his  lack  of  general  culture  does  not  pre- 
clude him  from  acquiring  it ;  —  why,  then,  is  he  made  to  keep 
company  with  Franklin  and  Jefferson? 

This   question   may  be  answered  by  one  word,  —  character. 
Washington's  character  was  so  great  and  noble  that  whatever  he 
wrote  became  great  and  noble  also.    No  defects  of  early  training, 
no  lack  of  the  elements  of  style,  no  shrinking  from  authorship,  could 
prevent  such  a  man  from  producing,  whenever  he  wrote  down  what 
was  uppermost  in  his  mint:  and  heart,  literature  marked  by  the 
most  important  of  all  qualities,  —  "  high  seriousness."     If,  as  we 
must  believe,  true  literature,  the  "  literature  of  power,"  is  sepa- 
rated from  pseudo-literature,  the  literature  of  mere  knowledge, 
by  the  fact  that  it  appeals  powerfully  to  the  emotions,  then  Wash- 
ington's writings  are  in  the  main  literature  of  no  mean  order.     It 
is  impossible  to  read  his  more  important  letters,  or  his  procla- 
mations to  his  soldiers,  or  such  documents  as  his  address  to  the 
governors  of  all  the  states  on  the  occasion  of  his  laying  down  his 
command,  or  the  rough  draft  of  his  Farewell  Address,  without 
feeling  emotions  of  the  most  elevated  kind.     It  is  true  that  these 
emotions  are  moral  and  intellectual  rather  than  aesthetic  in  char- 
acter, yet  at  times  they  are  aesthetic  too,  for  the  sonorous  and 
stately  dignity  of  some  of  hie  pages  gives  a  pleasure  that  is  not 
unconnected  with  pure  charm.    The  noble  simplicity  of  the  superb 
address  of  1 783,  which  follows  this  criticism,  —  a  document  which 
it  would  be  impossible  to  praise  too  highly  for  its  spirit  and,  one 
might  almost  add,  for  its  style  — will  illustrate  the  truth  of  the 
contention  here  made. 

Character,  then,  in  the  highest  sense  of  the  term,  is  what  makes 
Washington's  writings  live  as  literature  to  those  who  have  learned 
to  revere  him  after  long  and  zealous  study.  It  is  character  com- 
bined with  one  splendid  opportunity  that  gives  Lincoln  fame  as  a 
literary  man,  and  it  is  by  no  means  certain  that  Washington  did 
not  have  his  splendid  opportunity  when  he  disbanded  his  troops, 
even  if  we  do  not  go  further  and  attribute  to  him  the  only  qualities 
that  make  the  Farewel'  Address  an  ever  memorable  document. 
Washington,  with  his  character,  and  perhaps  his  two  great  oppor- 
tunities to  express  this  character  in  words  that  move  us  still,  is  as 
truly  a  literary  man  as  Lincoln,  and  should  stand  with  the  latter 


.4-1 


m 


•sMMi 


i»-w«i»;y 


so 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


m  a  Class  apart  from  all  our  other  writers.  Criticism  of  these  two 
great  men,  certainly  the  technical  criticism  of  the  student  of  rhet- 
oric, IS  almost  an  impertinence;  yet  it  would  be  equally  an  imper- 
tmence  for  the  student  of  history  to  claim  them  for  his  own  behoof 
smce  they  not  merely  did  noble  deeds,  but  uttered  and  recoui  i 
noble  words,  that  will  stir  mankind  as  long  as  sublime  characters 
mspire  reverent  admiraUon.  '-"t-iere 

W.  P.  Trent 


I  of  these  two 
•dent  of  rhet- 
»lly  an  imper- 
i  own  behoof, 
and  recoiiii.l 
ne  cliaracters 


Trent 


Head-quarters,  Newburg, 
8  June,  1783. 

Sir  :— The  great  object,  for  which  I  had  the  honor  to  hold  an 
appointment  in  the  service  of  my  country,  being  accomplished,  I 
am  now  preparing  to  resign  it  into  the  hands  of  Congress,  and  to 
return  to  that  domestic  retirement,  which,  it  is  well  known,  I  left 
with  the  greatest  reluctance  ;  a  retirement  for  which  I  have  never 
(eased  to  sigh,  through  a  long  and  painful  absence,  and  in  which 
(remote  from  the  noise  and  trouble  of  the  world)  I  meditate  to 
pass  the  remainder  of  life,  in  a  state  of  undisturbed  repose.  But 
before  I  carry  this  resolution  into  effect,  I  think  it  a  duty  incumbent 
on  me  to  make  this  my  last  official  communication  ;  to  congratu- 
late you  on  the  glorious  events  which  Heaven  has  been  pleased  to 
produce  in  our  favor  ;  to  offer  my  sentiments  respecting  some  im- 
portant subjects,  which  appear  to  me  to  be  intimately  connected 
with  the  tranquillity  of  the  United  States ;  to  take  my  leave  of  your 
Excellency  as  a  public  character ;  and  to  give  my  final  blessing  to 
that  country,  in  whose  service  I  have  spent  the  prime  of  my  life, 
for  whose  sake  I  have  consumed  so  many  anxious  days  and  watch- 
ful nights,  and  whose  happiness,  being  extremely  dear  to  me,  will 
always  constitute  no  inconsiderable  part  of  my  own. 

Impressed  with  the  liveliest  sensibility  on  this  pleasing  occasion, 
I  will  claim  the  indulgence  of  dilating  the  more  copiously  on  the 
subjects  of  our  mutual  felicitations.  When  we  consider  the  mag- 
nitude of  the  prize  we  contended  for,  the  doubtful  nature  of  the 
contest,  and  the  favorable  manner  in  which  it  has  terminated,  we 
shall  find  the  greatest  possible  reason  for  gratitude  and  rejoicing. 
This  is  a  theme  that  will  afford  infinite  delight  to  every  benevolent 
and  liberal  mind,  whether  the  event  in  contemplation  be  considered 
as  the  source  of  present  enjoyment,  or  the  parent  of  future  happi- 
ness ;  and  we  shall  have  equal  occasion  to  felicitate  ourselves  on 
the  lot  which  Providence  has  assigned  us,  whether  we  view  it  in  a 
natural,  a  political,  or  a  moral  point  of  light. 

The  citizens  of  America,  placed  in  the  most  enviable  condition, 
as  the  sole  lords  and  proprietors  of  a  vast  tract  of  continent,  cora- 


wi 


Ill  H— till 


I* 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


prehending  all  the  various  soils  anil  climates  of  the  world,  and 
abounding  with  all  the  necessaries  and  conveniences  of  life,  are  now, 
by  the  late  satisfactory  pacification,  acknowledged  to  be  possessed 
of  absolute  freedom  and  independency.  They  are,  from  this  period, 
to  be  considered  as  the  actors  on  a  most  conspicuous  theatre,  which 
seems  to  be  peculiarly  designated  by  Providence  for  the  display  of 
human  greatness  and  felicity.  Here  they  are  not  only  surrounded 
with  every  thing,  which  can  contribute  to  the  completion  of  private 
and  domestic  enjoyment ;  but  Heaven  has  crowned  all  its  other 
blessings,  by  giving  a  fairer  opportunity  for  political  Inppiness, 
than  any  other  nation  has  ever  been  favored  with.  Nothing  can 
illustrate  these  observations  more  forcibly,  than  a  recollection  of 
the  happy  conjuncture  of  times  and  circumstances,  under  which 
our  republic  assumed  its  rank  among  the  nations.  The  foundation 
of  our  empire  was  not  laid  in  the  gloomy  age  of  ignorance  and 
superstition;  but  at  an  epoch  when  the  rights  of  mankind  were 
better  understood  and  more  clearly  defined,  than  at  any  former 
period;  The  researches  of  the  human  mind  after  social  happiness 
have  been  carried  to  a  great  extent ;  the  treasures  of  knowledge, 
acquired  by  the  labors  of  philosophers,  sages,  and  legislators, 
through  a  long  succession  of  years,  are  laid  open  for  our  use,  and 
their  collected  wisdom  may  be  happily  applied  in  the  establishment 
of  our  forms  of  government.  The  free  cultivation  of  letters,  the 
unbounded  extension  of  commerce,  the  progressive  refinement  of 
manners,  the  growing  liberality  of  sentiment,  and,  above  all,  the 
pure  and  benign  light  of  Revelation,  have  had  a  meliorating  influ- 
ence on  mankind  and  increased  the  blessings  of  society.  At  this 
auspicious  period,  the  United  States  came  into  existence  as  a 
nation ;  and,  if  their  citizens  should  not  be  completely  free  and 
happy,  the  fault  will  be  entirely  their  own. 

Such  is  our  situation,  and  such  are  our  prospects  ;  but  notwith- 
standing the  cup  of  blessing  is  thus  reached  out  to  us ;  notwith- 
standing happiness  is  ours,  if  we  have  a  disposition  to  seize  the 
occasion  and  make  it  our  own ;  yet  it  appears  to  me  there  is  an 
option  still  left  to  the  United  States  of  America,  that  it  is  in  their 
choice,  and  depends  upon  their  conduct,  whether  they  will  be 
respectable  and  prosperous,  or  contemptible  and  miserable,  as  n 
nation.      This  is  the  time  of  their  political  probation;   this  is 


GEORGE    WASHINGTON 


n 


tie  world,  and 
)f  life,  are  now, 
)  be  possessed 
»m  this  period, 
theatre,  which 
the  display  of 
ily  surrounded 
tion  of  private 
I  all  its  other 
al  li  ippiness, 

Nothing  can 
icoUection  of 

under  which 
he  foundation 
jnorance  and 
nankind  were 
it  any  former 
:ial  happiness 
if  knowledge, 
d  legislators, 
our  use,  and 
establishment 
)f  letters,  the 
efinement  of 
ibove  all,  the 
orating  influ- 
ety.  At  this 
istence  as  a 
tely  free  and 

but  notwith- 
us;  notwith- 

to  seize  the 
e  there  is  an 

it  is  in  their 
they  will  be 
iserable,  as  a 
ion  :   this  is 


the  moment  when  the  eyes  of  the  whole  world  are  turned  upon 
them;  this  is  the  moment  to  establish  or  ruin  their  national 
character  for  ever;  this  is  the  favorable  moment  to  give  such 
a  tone  to  our  federal  government,  as  will  enable  it  to  answer 
the  ends  of  its  institution,  or  this  may  bs  the  ill-fated  moment 
for  relaxing  the  powers  of  the  Union,  annihilating  the  cement 
of  the  confederation,  and  exposing  us  to  become  the  sport  of 
European  politics,  which  may  play  one  State  against  another, 
to  prevent  their  growing  importance,  and  to  serve  their  own 
interested  purposes.  For,  according  to  the  system  of  policy  the 
States  shall  adopt  at  this  moment,  they  will  stand  or  fall ;  and  by 
their  confirmation  or  lapse  it  is  yet  to  be  decided,  whether  the 
revolution  must  ultimately  be  considered  as  a  blessing  or  a  curse  ; 
a  blessing  or  a  curse,  not  to  the  present  age  alone,  for  with  our 
fate  will  the  destiny  of  unborn  millions  be  involved. 

With  this  conviction  of  the  importance  of  the  present  crisis, 
silence  in  me  would  be  a  crime.  I  will  therefore  speak  to  your 
Excellency  the  language  of  freedom  and  of  sincerity  without 
disguise.  I  am  aware,  however,  that  those  who  differ  from  me  in 
political  sentiment,  may  perhaps  remark,  I  am  stepping  out  of  the 
proper  line  of  my  duty,  and  may  possibly  ascribe  to  arrogance  or 
ostentation,  what  I  know  is  alone  the  result  of  the  purest  intention. 
But  the  recitude  of  my  own  heart,  which  disdains  such  unworthy 
motives ;  the  part  I  have  hitherto  acted  in  life ;  the  determina- 
tion I  have  formed,  of  not  taking  any  share  in  public  business 
hereafter ;  the  ardent  desire  I  feel,  and  shall  continue  to  manifest, 
of  quietly  enjoying,  in  private  life,  after  all  the  toils  of  war,  the 
benefits  of  a  wise  and  liueral  government,  will,  I  flatter  myself, 
sooner  or  later  convince  my  countrymen,  that  I  could  have  no 
sinister  views  in  delivering,  with  so  little  reserve,  the  opinions 
contained  in  this  address. 

There  are  four  things,  which,  I  humbly  conceive,  are  essential 
to  the  well-being,  I  may  even  venture  to  say,  to  the  existence  of 
the  United  States,  as  an  independent  power. 

First.  An  indissoluble  union  of  the  States  under  one  federal 
head. 

Secondly,    A  sacred  regard  to  public  justice. 

Thirdly.    The  adoption  of  a  proper  peace  establishment ;  and, 


rm" 


naw 


S4 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


V-  \- 


Fourthly.  The  prevalence  of  that  pacific  and  friendly  disposi- 
tion among  the  people  of  the  United  States,  which  will  induce 
them  to  forget  their  local  prejudices  and  policies ;  to  make  those 
mutual  concessions,  which  are  requisite  to  the  general  prosperity ; 
and,  in  some  instances,  to  sacrifice  their  individual  advantages  to 
the  interest  of  the  community. 

These  are  the  pillars  on  which  the  glorious  fabric  of  our  inde- 
pendency and  national  character  must  be  supported.  Liberty  is 
the  basis ;  and  whoever  would  dare  to  sap  the  foundation,  or  over- 
turn the  structure,  under  whatever  specious  pretext  he  may 
attempt  it,  will  merit  the  bitterest  execration,  and  the  severest 
punishment,  which  can  be  inflicted  by  his  injured  country. 

On  the  three  first  articles  I  will  make  a  few  observations,  leav- 
ing the  last  to  the  good  sense  and  serious  consideration  of  those 
immediately  concerned. 

Under  the  first  head,  although  it  may  not  be  necessary  or 
proper  for  me,  in  this  place,  to  enter  into  a  particular  disquisition 
on  the  principles  of  the  Union,  and  to  take  up  the  great  question 
which  has  been  frequently  agitated,  whether  it  be  expedient  and 
requisite  for  the  States  to  delegate  a  larger  proportion  of  power  to 
Congress,  or  not ;  yet  it  will  be  a  part  of  my  duty,  and  that  of 
every  tnie  patriot,  to  assert  without  reserve,  and  to  insist  upon, 
the  following  positions.  That,  unless  the  States  will  suffer  Con- 
gress to  exercise  those  prerogatives  they  are  undoubtedly  invested 
with  by  the  constitution,  every  thing  must  very  rapidly  tend  to 
anarchy  and  confusion.  That  it  is  indispensable  to  the  happiness 
of  the  individual  States,  that  there  should  be  lodged  somewhere  a 
supreme  power  to  regulate  and  govern  the  general  concerns  of 
the  confederated  republic,  without  which  the  Union  cannot  be  of 
long  duration.  That  there  must  be  a  faithful  and  pointed  com- 
pliance, on  the  part  of  every  State,  with  the  late  proposals  and 
demands  of  Congress,  or  the  most  fatal  consequences  will  ensue. 
That  whatever  measures  have  a  tendency  to  dissolve  the  Union, 
or  contribute  to  violate  or  lessen  the  sovereign  authority,  ought  to 
be  considered  as  hostile  to  the  liberty  and  independency  of 
America,  and  the  authors  of  lliem  treated  according.  And  lastly, 
that  unless  we  can  be  enabled,  by  the  concurrence  of  the  States, 
to  participate  of  the  fruits  of  the  revolution,  and  enjoy  the  essen- 


iendly  disposi- 

ich  will  induce 

to  make  those 

ral  prosperity  ; 

advantages  to 

c  of  our  inde- 
d.  Liberty  is 
ation,  or  over- 
text  he   may 

i  the  severest 

>untry. 

rvations,  leav- 

ation  of  those 

necessary  or 
ir  disquisition 
freat  question 

xpedient  and 
n  of  power  to 
,  and  that  of 
\  insist  upon, 
1  suffer  Con- 
edly  invested 
»idly  tend  to 
he  happiness 
somewhere  a 

concerns  of 
:annot  be  of 
ointed  com- 
oposals  and 
i  will  ensue. 

the  Union, 
ty,  ought  to 
endency  of 

And  lastly, 

the  States, 

the  essen< 


GEORGE    WASHINGTON 


tial  benefits  of  civil  society,  under  a  form  of  go%'emment  so  free 
and  uncorrupted,  so  happily  guarded  against  the  danger  of  op- 
pression, as  lias  been  devised  and  adopted  by  the  articles  of  con- 
federation, it  will  be  a  subject  of  regret,  that  so  much  blood  and 
treasure  have  been  lavished  for  no  purpose,  that  so  many  suffer- 
ings have  been  encountered  without  a  compensation,  and  that 
so  many  sacrifices  have  been  made  in  vain. 

Many  other  considerations  might  here  be  adduced  to  prove, 
that,  without  an  entire  conformity  to  the  spirit  of  the  Union,  we 
cannot  exist  as  an  independent  power.  It  will  be  sufficient  for 
my  purpose  to  mention  but  one  or  two,  which  seem  to  me  of  the 
greatest  importance.  It  is  only  in  our  united  character,  as  an 
empire,  that  our  independence  is  acknowledged,  that  our  power 
can  be  regarded  or  our  credit  supported,  among  foreign  nations. 
The  treaties  of  the  European  powers  with  the  United  States  of 
America  will  have  no  validity  on  a  dissolution  of  the  Union.  We 
shall  be  left  nearly  in  a  state  of  nature ;  or  we  may  find,  by  our 
own  unhappy  experience,  that  there  is  a  natural  and  necessary 
progression  from  the  extreme  of  anarchy  to  the  extreme  of 
tyranny,  and  that  arbitrary  power  is  most  easily  established  on 
the  ruins  of  liberty,  abused  to  licentiousness. 

As  to  the  second  article,  which  respects  the  performance  of 
public  justice,  Congress  have,  in  their  late  address  to  the  United 
States,  almost  exhausted  the  subject;  they  have  explained  their 
ideas  so  fully,  and  have  enforced  the  obligations  the  States  are 
under,  to  render  complete  justice  to  all  the  public  creditors,  with 
so  much  dignity  and  energy,  that,  in  my  opinion,  no  real  friend  to 
the  honor  of  independency  of  America  can  hesitate  a  single 
moment,  respecting  the  propriety  of  complying  with  the  just  and 
honorable  measures  proposed.  If  their  arguments  do  not  pro- 
duce conviction,  I  know  of  nothing  that  will  have  greater  in- 
fluence :  especially  when  we  recollect,  that  the  system  referred  to, 
being  the  result  of  the  collected- wisdom  of  the  continent,  must  be 
esteemed,  if  not  perfect,  certainly  the  least  objectionable  of  any 
that  could  be  devised ;  and  that,  if  it  shall  not  bij  carried  into 
immediate  execution,  a  national  bankruptcy,  with  all  its  deplorable 
consequences,  will  take  place,  before  cny  different  plan  can 
possibly  be  proposed  and  adopted.    So  pressing  are  the  present 


* 


'ommpms 


mm 


56 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


\\     I 


circumstances,  and  such  is  the  alternative  now  oflered  to  the 
States. 

The  abihty  of  the  country  to  discharge  the  debts,  which  have 
been  incurred  in  its  defence,  is  not  to  be  doubted  ;  an  incHnation, 
I  flatter  myself,  will  not  be  wanting.  The  path  of  our  duty  is 
plain  before  us ;  honesty  will  be  found,  on  every  experiment,  to 
be  the  best  and  only  true  policy.  Let  us  then,  as  a  nation,  be 
just ;  let  us  fulfil  the  public  contracts,  which  Congress  had  un- 
doubtedly a  right  to  make  for  the  purpose  of  carrying  on  the  war, 
with  the  same  good  faith  we  suppose  ourselves  bound  to  perform 
our  private  engagements.  In  the  mean  time,  let  an  attention  to 
the  cheerful  performance  of  their  proper  business,  as  individuals 
and  as  members  of  society,  be  earnestly  inculcated  on  the  citizens 
of  America ;  then  will  they  strengthen  the  hands  of  the  govern- 
ment, and  be  happy  under  its  protection ;  every  one  will  reap  the 
fruit  of  his  labors,  every  one  will  enjoy  his  own  acquisitions,  with- 
out molestation  and  without  danger. 

In'  this  state  of  absolute  freedom  and  perfect  security,  who  will 
grudge  to  yield  a  very  little  of  his  property  to  support  the  common 
interest  of  society,  and  insure  the  protection  of  government? 
Who  does  not  remember  the  frequent  declarations,  at  the  com- 
mencement of  the  war,  that  we  should  be  completely  satisfied,  if, 
at  the  expense  of  one  half,  we  could  defend  the  remainder  of  our 
possessions?  Where  is  the  man  to  be  found,  who  wishes  to 
remain  indebted  for  the  defence  of  his  own  person  and  property 
to  the  exertions,  the  bravery,  and  the  blood  of  others,  without 
making  one  generous  cfTort  to  repay  the  debt  of  honor  and  grati- 
tude ?  In  what  part  of  the  continent  shall  we  find  a  man,  or  body 
of  men,  who  would  not  blush  to  stand  up  and  propose  measures 
purposely  calculated  to  rob  the  soldier  of  his  stipend,  and  the 
public  creditor  of  his  due?  And  were  it  possible,  that  such  a 
flagrant  instance  of  injustice  could  ever  happen,  would  it  not 
excite  the  general  indignation,  and  tend  to  bring  down  upon  the 
authors  of  such  measures  the  aggravated  vengeance  of  Heaven  ? 
If,  after  all,  a  spirit  of  disunion,  or  a  temper  of  obstinacy  and  per- 
verseness  should  manifest  itself  in  any  of  the  States ;  if  such  an 
ungracious  disposition  should  attempt  to  frustrate  all  the  happy 
effects  that  might  be  expected  to  flow  from  the  Union ;  if  there 


BBBsasir 


GEORGE    WASIllNGTOtf 


57 


offered  to  the 

bts,  >vhich  have 

;  an  inclination, 

of  our  duty  is 

experiment,  to 

as  a  nation,  be 

ngress  had  un- 

Mng  on  the  war, 

»und  to  perform 

an  attention  to 

>,  as  individuals 

on  the  citizens 

of  the  govern- 

iie  will  reap  the 

luisitions,  with- 

curity,  who  will 
irt  the  common 
f  government? 
Js,  at  the  com- 
ely satisfied,  if, 
[Tiainder  of  our 
who  wishes  to 
1  and  property 
others,  without 
>nor  and  grati- 
i  man,  or  body 
pose  measures 
pend,  and  the 
e,  that  such  a 
would  it  not 
own  upon  the 
e  of  Heaven? 
inacy  and  per- 
!s ;  if  such  an 
all  the  happy 
nion :  if  there 


should  be  a  refusal  to  comply  with  the  requisition  for  funds  to 
discharge  the  annual  interest  of  the  public  debts ;  and  if  that 
refusal  should  revive  again  all  those  jealousies,  and  produce  all 
those  evils,  which  are  now  happily  removed,  Congress,  who  have, 
in  all  their  transactions,  shown  a  great  degree  of  magnanimity  and 
justice,  will  stand  justified  in  the  sight  of  God  and  man ;  and  the 
State  alone,  which  puts  itself  in  opposition  to  the  aggregate  wis- 
iloni  of  the  continent,  and  follows  such  mistaken  and  pernicious 
counsels,  will  be  responsible  for  all  the  consequences. 

For  my  own  part,  conscious  of  having  acted,  while  a  servant  of 
the  public,  in  the  manner  I  conceived  best  suited  to  promote  the 
real  interests  of  my  country ;  having,  in  consequence  of  my  fixed 
belief,  in  some  measure  pledged  myself  to  the  army,  that  their 
country  would  finally  do  them  complete  and  ample  justice ;  and 
not  wishing  to  conceal  any  instance  of  my  official  conduct  from 
the  eyes  of  the  world,  I  have  thought  proper  to  transmit  to  your 
Excellency  the  enclosed  collection  of  papers,  relative  to  the  half- 
pay  and  commutation  granted  by  Congress  to  the  officers  of  the 
army.    From  these  communications,  my  decided  sentiments  will 
be  clearly  comprehended,  together  with  the  conclusive  reasons 
which  induced  me,  at  an  early  period,  to  recommend  the  adoption 
of  this  measure,  in  the  most  earnest  and  serious  manner.     As  the 
proceedings  of  Congress,  the  army,  and  myself,  are  open  to  all, 
and  contain,  in  my  opinion,  sufficient  information  to  remove  the 
prejudices  and  errors,  which  may  have  been  entertained  by  any, 
I  think  it  unnecessary  to  say  anything  more  than  just  to  observe, 
that  the  resolutions  of  Congress,  now  alluded  to,  are  undoubtedly 
as  absolutely  binding  upon  the  United  States,  as  the  most  solemn 
acts  of  confederation  or  legislation. 

As  to  the  idea,  which  I  am  informed,  has  in  some  instances 
prevailed,  that  the  half-pay  and  commutation  are  to  be  regarded 
merely  in  the  odious  light  of  a  pension,  it  ought  to  be  exploded 
for  ever.  That  provision  should  be  viewed,  as  it  really  was,  a  rea- 
sonable compensation  offered  by  Congress,  3t  a  time  when  they 
had  nothing  else  to  give  to  the  officers  of  the  army  for  services 
then  to  be  performed.  It  was  the  only  means  to  prevent  a  total 
dereliction  of  the  service.  It  was  a  part  of  their  hire.  I  may  be 
allowed  to  say,  it  was  the  price  of  their  blood,  and  of  your  inde- 


58 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


i 


pendency  ;  it  is  therefore  more  than  a  common  debt,  it  is  a  debt 
of  honor;  it  can  never  be  considered  as  a  pension  or  gratuil/, 
nor  be  cancelled  until  it  is  fairly  ciischarged. 

With  regard  to  a  distinction  between  officers  and  soldiers,  it  is 
sufficient  that  the  uniform  experience  of  every  nation  of  the 
world,  combined  with  our  own,  proves  the  utility  and  propriety  of 
the  discrimination.  Rewards,  in  pro|)()rtion  to  ihe  aids  the 
public  derives  from  them,  are  unquestionably  due  to  all  its  ser- 
vants. In  some  lines,  the  soldiers  have  perhaps  generally  had  as 
ample  a  compensation  for  their  services,  by  the  large  lx)unties 
which  have  been  paid  them,  as  their  officers  will  receive  in  the 
proposed  commutation ;  in  others,  if,  besides  the  donations  of 
lands,  the  payment  of  arrearages  of  clothing  and  wages  (in  which 
articles  all  the  component  parts  of  the  army  must  be  put  upon 
the  same  footing),  we  take  into  the  estimate  the  douceurs  many 
of  the  soldiers  have  received,  and  the  gratuity  of  one  year's  full 
pay,  which  is  promised  to  all,  possibly  their  situation  (every  cir- 
cumstance being  duly  considered)  will  not  be  deemed  less  eligi- 
ble than  that  of  the  officers.  Should  a  further  reward,  however, 
be  judged  equitable,  I  will  venture  to  assert  no  one  will  enjoy 
greater  satisfaction  than  myself,  on  seeing  an  exemption  from 
taxes  for  a  limited  time,  (which  has  been  petitioned  for  in  some 
instances,)  or  any  other  adequate  immunity  or  compensation 
granted  to  the  brave  defenders  of  their  country's  cause  ;  but 
neither  the  adoption  or  rejection  of  this  proposition  will  in  any 
manner  affect,  much  less  militate  against,  the  act  of  Congress,  by 
which  they  have  offered  five  years'  full  pay,  in  lieu  of  the  half- 
pay  for  life,  which  had  been  before  promised  to  the  officers  of 
the  army. 

Before  I  conclude  the  subject  of  public  justice,  I  cannot  omit 
to  mention  the  obligations  this  country  is  under  to  that  meritori- 
ous class  of  veteran  non-commissioned  officers  and  privates,  who 
have  been  disc  narged  for  inability,  in  consequence  of  the  resolu- 
tion of  Congress  of  the  23d  of  April,  1782,  on  an  annual  pension 
for  life.  Their  peculiar  suflferings,  their  singular  merits,  and 
cjaims  to  that  provision,  need  only  be  known,  to  interest  all  the 
feelings  of  humanity  in  their  behalf.  Nothing  but  a  punctual 
payment  of  their  annual  allowance  can  rescue  them  from  the  most 


GEORGE    WASHINGTON 


59 


cht,  it  is  a  debt 
ion  or  gratuil/, 

d  soldiers,  it  is 

nation  of  the 
n<l  propriety  of 
lie   aids    the 

to  ail  its  ser- 
enerally  had  as 

large  lM)iinties 
I  receive  in  the 

donations  of 
fages  (in  which 
St  be  put  upon 
douceurs  many 
one  year's  fuil 
tion  (every  cir 
!med  less  eligj- 
ward,  however, 
one  will  enjoy 
xemption  from 
led  for  in  some 
•  compensation 
y's  cause  ;   but 
ion  will  in  any 
)f  Congress,  by 
eu  of  the  half- 
the  officers  of 

I  cannot  omit 

that  meritori- 
1  privates,  who 

of  the  resolu- 
annual  pension 
ir  merits,  and 
merest  all  the 
ut   a  piuictual 

from  the  most 


complicated  misery;  and  nothing  could  lie  a  fnore  nuiancholy 
and  distressing  sight,  than  to  behold  those,  who  h  ve  shed  their 
blood  or  lost  their  limbs  in  the  service  of  their  ruuntry,  without  a 
shelter,  without  a  friend,  and  without  the  means  of  obtaining  any 
of  the  necessaries  or  comforts  of  life,  compelled  to  beg  their  daily 
breatl  from  door  to  door.  Suffer  me  to  recommend  tho>.e  of  this 
description,  belonging  to  yoir  State,  to  the  warmest  patronage  of 
your  Kx(  cilency  ahd  your  legislature 

It  is  necessary  to  say  but  a  few  words  on  the  third  topic  which 
was  proposed,  and  which  regards  particularly  the  defence  of  the 
republic ;  as  there  can  be  little  doubt  but  Congress  will  recom- 
mend a  proper  peace  establishment  for  tlic  United  States,  in 
which  a  due  attention  will  be  paid  to  the  importance  of  placing 
t'ur  militia  of  the  Union  upcm  a  regular  and  respect  ihlc  footing. 
If  this  should  be  the  case,  I  would  beg  leave  to  urge  the  great 
advantage  of  it  in  the  strongest  terms.  The  militia  of  this  coun- 
try must  be  considered  as  the  palladium  of  our  security,  and  the 
first  effect'/ d  resort  in  case  of  hostility.  It  is  essential  therefore, 
tliat  the  same  system  should  pervade  the  whole ;  that  th«-  forma- 
tion md  d;>(  ipline  of  the  mi!i*ia  of  the  continent  should  be  abso- 
lutely uniform,  and  that  the  same  species  of  arms,  accoutrements, 
and  military  apparatus,  should  be  introduced  in  every  part  of  the 
United  States.  No  one,  who  has  not  learned  it  from  experience, 
can  conceive  the  difficulty,  expense,  and  confusion,  which  result 
from  a  contrary  system,  or  the  vague  arrangements  which  have 
hitherto  prevailed. 

If,  in  treating  of  political  points,  a  greater  latitude  than  usual 
has  been  taken  in  the  course  of  this  address,  the  importance  of  the 
crisis,  and  the  magnitude  of  the  objects  m  discussion,  must  be  my 
apology.  It  is,  however,  neither  my  wish  or  expectation,  that  the 
preceding  observations  should  claim  any  regard,  except  so  far  as 
they  shall  appear  to  be  dictated  by  a  good  intention,  consonant 
to  the  immutable  rules  of  justice,  calculated  to  produce  a  liberal 
system  of  policy,  and  founded  on  whate t  experience  may  have 
been  rquired  by  a  long  and  close  attention  to  public  business. 
Here  I  might  speak  with  the  more  confidence,  from  my  actual 
observations ;  and,  if  it  would  not  swell  this  letter  (already  too 
prolix)  beyond  the  bounds  I  had  preset  il-tl  to  myself,  I  could 


6o 


AMERICAN  f/tOSE 


rlemonstr.ite  to  every  ininJ  o|)en  to  convicfion,  that  in  less  time, 
ami  with  miicii  less  expense,  tiiaii  lias  Iwen  iiuiirred,  the  war  might 
have  been  brought  to  the  same  \v.\\)\^f  mmliision,  if  the  resoiirceii 
of  the  continent  coiiid  have  been  i)r>iperly  .Irawn  forth;  that  the 
distresses  ami  disappointments,  wliirh  have  very  often  occurred, 
have,  in  too  many  ii\stances,  resulted  more  from  a  want  of  energy 
in  the  Continental  government,  than  a  dt  liciency  of  means  in  the 
l)articular  States  ;  that  the  inefficacy  of  measures  arising  from  the 
want  of  an  ade(iuate  authority  in  the  supreme  power,  frum  a  partial 
compliance  with  the  recjuisilions  of  Congress  in  some  of  the  States, 
and  from  a  failure  of  punctuality  in  others,  while  it  temi  d  to  damp 
the  zeal  of  those,  which  were  more  willing  to  exert  themselves, 
serveil  also  to  accumulate  the  expenses  of  the  wnr,  and  to  frustrate 
the  best  concerted  plans  ;  and  that  the  discourage  nent  occasioned 
by  the  complicateil  difticulties  and  embarrassments,  in  which  our 
affairs  were  by  this  means  involved,  woulil  have  long  ago  produced 
the  dissolution  of  any  army,  less  patient,  less  virtuous,  and  less 
persevering,  than  that  which  I  have  had  the  honor  to  command. 
But,  while  I  mention  these  things,  which  arc  notorious  facts,  as  the 
defects  of  our  federal  constitution,  particularly  in  the  prosecution 
of  a  war,  I  beg  it  may  be  understood,  that,  as  I  have  ever  taken  a 
pleasure  in  gratefully  acknowledging  the  assistance  and  support  I 
have  derived  from  every  class  of  citizens,  so  shall  I  always  be 
happy  to  do  justice  to  the  unparalleled  exertions  of  the  individual 
States  on  many  interesting  occasions. 

I  have  thus  freely  disclosed  what  I  wished  to  make  known, 
before  I  surrendered  up  my  public  trust  to  those  who  committed 
it  to  me.  The  task  is  now  accomplished.  I  now  bid  adieu  to 
your  Excellency  as  the  chief  magistrate  of  your  State,  at  the  same 
time  I  bid  a  last  farewell  to  the  cares  of  office,  and  all  the  employ- 
ments of  public  life. 

It  remains,  then,  to  be  my  final  and  only  request,  that  your 
Excellency  will  communicate  these  sentiments  to  your  legislature 
at  their  next  meeting,  and  that  they  may  be  considered  as  the 
legacy  of  one,  who  has  ardently  wished,  on  all  occasions,  to  be  use- 
ful to  his  country,  and  who,  even  in  the  shade  of  retirement,  will 
not  fail  to  implore  the  Divine  benedictio"  upon  it. 

I  now  make  it  my  earnest  prayer,  that  God  would  have  you,  and 


tthiimimtmi 


at  in  less  time, 
,  the  war  mJKht 
f  the  resources 
forth  ;  that  the 
often  occurred, 
want  of  energy 
)f  means  in  the 
rising  from  the 
r,  fr(;m  a  partial 
le  of  the  States, 
:enti<  il  to  damp 
ert  themselves, 
and  to  frustrate 
HMit  occasioned 
;s,  in  which  our 
Ij  ago  produced 
tuous,  and  less 
r  to  command. 
}U8  facts,  as  the 
he  prosecution 
ve  ever  taken  a 
:  and  support  I 
11  I  always  be 
f  the  individual 


CEOKGE    WASHINGTON 


6i 


the  State  over  which  you  preside,  in  his  holy  protection  ;  that  he 
would  inclini;  the  hearts  of  the  citizens  to  cultivate  a  spirit  of  sub- 
ordination antl  obedience  to  government ;  to  entertain  a  brotherly 
.i.Tection  and  love  for  one  another,  for  their  fellcw  (.itizens  of  the 
United  States  at  larye,  and  particularly  for  iheir  brethren  who 
have  served  in  the  field  ;  and  fuiaily,  that  he  would  most  graciously 
be  pleased  to  dispose  us  all  to  do  justice,  to  love  mercy,  and  to 
demean  ourselves  with  ihat  charity,  humility,  and  pacific  temper 
of  mind,  which  were  the  characteristics  of  the  Divine  Author  of 
our  blessed  religion,  and  without  an  humble  imitation  of  whose 
example  in  these  things,  we  can  never  hope  to  be  a  happy  nation. 
I  have  the  honor  to  l>o,  with  much  esteem  and  respect,  Sir, 
your  Kxcellenry's  most  obedient  and  most  humble  servant. 

\Cir(uliir  I. tiler  AMrisstJ la  the  Governors  of  itll  the  Slitles  on  DishafiMHg 
the  Army.  The  text  fulloweil.  with  the  periiiiitiiiiti)  of  the  pulilinhcra,  i*  that 
enploycd  l>y  W.  C.  Ford,  in  hi»  'lite  ll'tilings  of  Gtorgt  Wntkington,  O,  V. 
I'utimm'i  Son»,  i89r,  vol.  x,  pp.  254-265.] 


I  make  known, 
ivho  committed 
V  bid  adieu  to 
Lte,  at  the  same 
all  the  employ- 

itest,  that  your 
your  legislature 
isidered  as  the 
ions,  to  be  use- 
retirement,  will 

1  have  you,  and 


rm- 


^m 


THOMAS   PAINE 


ill 


[Thomas  Paine  was  born  at  Thetford,  in  Norfolk  County,  England,  Jan.  29, 
1736/7.  He  was  brought  up  in  his  father's  faith,  that  of  the  Quakers,  and 
trained  to  his  father's  trade  of  stay-making.  He  received  a  grammar  school 
education,  without  the  Latin;  later  this  was  broadened  by  attendance  upon 
scientific  lectures  in  London  and  by  miscellaneous  reading.  After  a  brief  ex- 
periment in  privateering  (1756),  he  sought  his  livelihood  in  a  singular  variety 
of  occupations :  he  was,  in  turn  or  at  the  same  time,  stay-maker,  schoolmaster, 
tobacconist,  grocer,  and  exciseman.  He  was  twice  married,  in  1759  and  in 
1 77 1,  but  had  no  children.  In  1774,  bankrupt  in  business  and  dismissed  froai 
the  excise,  he  separated  by  agreement  from  his  wife  and  sailed  for  America. 
He  carried  letters  from  Franklin,  whom  he  had  met  in  London,  and  with  their 
aid  he  secured  employment  in  Philadelphia,  first  as  a  private  tutor,  then  as 
editor  of  a  literary  magazine.  Here,  at  last,  he  discovered  his  vocation.  With 
the  publication  of  Common  Sense,  in  January,  1 776,  he  became  the  leading 
pamphleteer  of  the  American  Revolution;  and  this  position  he  retained  to 
the  close  of  the  war  by  a  series  of  patriotic  brochurp  entitled.  ZM-Criiis. 
He  served  for  a  time  as  r.ide-de-camp  to  General  Greene,  and  in  1777  and 
1778  he  acted  as  secretary  to  the  Congressional  Committee  on  Foreign  Affairs. 
In  1 78 1  he  accompanied  Colonel  Laurens  on  an  important  and  successful 
mission  tn  the  French  Court.  At  the  end  of  the  war,  after  all  these  services, 
he  was  as  poor  as  at  the  beginning.  His  pay,  as  far  as  he  got  it,  had  barely 
defrayed  his  expenses;  he  was  too  honest  to  line  bis  pockets  in  any  irregular 
fashion;  he  had  refused,  from  patriotic  motives,  to  copyright  his  publica- 
tions. The  Republic  showed  some  gratitude :  at  the  instance  of  Washington, 
Paine  received  grants  of  money  from  Congress  and  from  the  Pennsylvania 
legislature,  and  from  the  legislature  of  New  York  a  tract  of  confiscated  land 
near  New  Rochelle,  In  1787,  he  sailed  for  Europe  with  a  plan  for  building 
iron  bridges  of  novel  construction  and  unprecedented  length  of  span;  but 
the  outbreak  of  the  French  Revolution  drew  him  back  into  literature  and  poli- 
tics. To  Burke's  attack  upon  the  Revolution  he  responded  with  a  book  upon 
the  Rights  of  Man  (1791).  A  second  part  (1792)  caused  his  indictriient  and 
condemnation  for  treason ;  but  he  had  already  fled  to  France,  where,  as  a  friend 
of  liberty,  he  had  received  honorary  citizenship  and  had  been  elected  a  member 
of  the  Convention.  In  this  capacity  he  acted  with  the  Girondists  and  voted 
against  the  execution  of  Louis  XVI.  During  the  Terror  he  narrowly  escaped 
the  guillotine;  but  after  ten  months'  imprisonment,  he  was  liberated  in 
November,  1794.  In  1794  and  1795  appeared  his  Age  of  Reason,  an  attack 
upon  the  authenticity  and  morality  of  the  Jewish  and  Christian  Scriptures. 

62 


^mm!}., 


'■in'wi!>!'i>"iiii,ui.ii!iii«miiim 


ii^w».iii*>i»ji.'iiniitw.mn>mi 


THOAfAS  PAINE 


«3 


ngland,  Jan.  20, 
Quakers,  and 
jrammar  school 
ttendance  upon 
\fter  a  brief  ex- 
singular  variety 
X,  schoolmaster, 
in  1759  and  in 
dismissed  i'Aj-.u 
!d  for  America. 
I,  and  with  their 
;  tutor,  then  as 
vocation.    With 
me  the  leading 
he  retained  to 

ind  in  1777  and 
Foreign  Affairs, 
and  successful 
1  these  services, 
it  it,  had  barely 
in  any  irregular 
;ht  his  publica- 
of  Washington, 
le  Pennsylvania 
:onfiscated  land 
an  for  building 
h  of  span;  but 
rature  and  poli- 
th  a  book  upon 
indictrtient  and 
here,  as  a  friend 
scted  a  member 
jists  and  voted 
rrowly  escaped 
IS   liberated  in 
nson,  an  attack 
ian  Scriptures. 


The  first  English  printer  was  indicted  and  convicted  (1797)  for  publishing 
blasphemy,  and  other  publishers  were  fmed  and  imprisoned  as  late  as  1819. 
In  the  United  States  also,  to  which  Paine  returned  in  1797,  the  work  was  ill 
received:  it  praclically  destroyed  his  popularity.  He  died  June  8,  1809,  and 
was  buried  on  his  farm  at  New  Kochelle.  In  1819  his  remains  were  disin- 
terred by  William  Cobbett  and  taken  to  England.  Cobbett's  intention  of  cele- 
brating a  second  funeral  and  making  of  it  a  great  Radical  demonstration  was 
never  carried  out;  in  1836  Paine's  bones  passed,  with  Cobbett's  other  effects, 
into  the  hands  of  a  receiver  in  bankruptcy;  and  they  are  understood  to  be 
now  scattered  through  England,  held  as  curiosities  or  relics.] 

The  best  collection  of  Paine's  writings,  of  which  only  the  most  important 
have  been  mentioned,  is  that  edited  by  Moncure  D.  Conway  (four  vols.,  G.  P. 
Putnam'^  Mons,  1894-96).  Conway  has  also  written  the  best  life  of  Paine 
(two  vols.,  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons,  1892). 

"Where  liberty  is,  there  is  my  country,"  said  Benjamin  Frank- 
lin. "  Where  liberty  is  not,  there  is  mine,"  was  Thomas  Paine's 
reply.  In  their  cosmopolitan  spirit,  as  in  the  radical  character  of 
their  liberalism,  both  of  these  men  were  fair  representatives  of  the 
iationalistic  eighteenth  century;  but  Paine  had  the  crusading 
instinct  besides,  and  this  carried  him  into  enterprises  of  which  his 
cannier  and  more  cautious  friend  would  have  been  incapable.  It 
was  as  "  a  volunteer  of  the  world,"  and  not  as  a  man  having  a 
stake  in  play,  that  Paine,  as  soon  as  he  reached  America,  espoused 
the  anti-British  cause.  It  was  us  a  friend  of  freedom  that  he 
threw  himself,  to  his  own  harm,  into  the  central  and  fiercest  whirl 
of  the  French  Revolution.  It  was  as  a  knight-errant  in  the  cause 
of  liberty  that  he  plunged  into  the  last  and  most  disastrous  of  his 
adventures,  his  attack  upon  orthodox  Christianity ;  for  it  seemed 
to  him  that  men  bound  by  any  fa/th  less  elastic  than  his  own  were 
victims  of  the  worst  of  tyrannies,  bondsmen  not  only  in  their 
actions  but  in  their  thoughts. 

There  was  nothing  especially  novel  in  Paine's  message  to  his 
contemporaries.  His  political  ideals  —  popular  sovereignty,  equal 
rights,  representative  government  —  had  been  the  commonplaces 
of  advanced  Whig  theory  since  the  days  of  the  English  Common- 
wealth; and  in  their  French  adaptations  these  theories  had  be- 
come familiar  to  Europe.  In  his  Rights  of  Man  he  advocated 
also  the  limitation  o(  governmental  power  by  a  written  constitu- 
tion ;  but  this  idea  had  been  formulated  in  England  in  1647,  had 


Pi 


I 


■»— •-— f/T" 


^.^ 


•MilttM^rf 


(54 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


been  kept  alive  in  the  American  colonies  during  the  charter  dis- 
putes, and  had  been  embodied  in  the  state  constitutions  at  the 
very  beginning  of  the  Revolution.  Paine's  religious  views  were 
scarcely  more  original ;  they  were  substantially  those  of  the  Eng- 
lish deists,  tinged  with  Quakerism  of  the  more  radical  school.  It  is 
always  a  long  way,  however,  from  the  formulation  of  theories  to 
their  general  acceptance,  and  such  acceptance  does  not  necessarily 
imply  an  immediate  change  of  practice.  In  his  political  writings 
Paine  did  as  much  as  any  man,  and  perhaps  more  than  any  other 
man,  to  popularise  the  dogmas  of  Locke  and  Rousseau  and  to 
facilitate  their  embodiment  in  governmental  institutions.  His  re- 
ligious propaganda  was  less  successful,  and  the  hostility  it  aroused 
has  done  much  to  obscure  his  political  services. 

Other  political  writers  may  have  exercised  a  deeper  and  more 
enduring  influence,  but  few  have  had  in  their  own  day  a  larger 
public.  Of  his  Common  Sense  one  hundred  and  twenty  thousand 
copies  were  sold  within  three  months,  and  Conway  estimates  its 
total  sale  at  houie  and  abroad,  in  the  original  and  in  translations, 
at  half  a  million  copies.  The  first  part  of  the  Rights  of  Man,  in 
spite  of  the  fact  that  English  opinion  was  hostile  to  Paine's  con- 
clusions, found  more  than  forty  thousand  purchasers  in  Great 
Britain,  and  this  without  the  i>,dvertisement  which  prosecution  gave 
afterwards  to  the  completed  work.  Ten  years  after  its  completion, 
Paine  claimed  that  its  total  circulation,  in  English  and  in  transla- 
tions, had  exceeded  four  hundred  thousand.  The  popularity  of 
these  tracts  was  partly  owing  to  their  timeliness,  but  mainly  to 
their  almost  perfect  adaptation  to  their  purpose.  Paine  knew 
men.  He  knew  what  arguments  would  appeal  to  them,  and  how 
these  arguments  should  be  put.  He  had  in  high  degree  the 
faculty  of  lucid  statement  and  of  pat  illustration.  He  could  coin 
phrases  and  even  epigrams,  and  he  was  too  wise  to  lessen  their 
value  by  coining  too  many.  He  knew  that  epigrammatic  writing 
is  fatiguing  reading,  and  that  to  appeal  to  the  plain  people  a  writer 
should  be  known  as  a  man  of  sense  and  not  as  a  wit.  Of  humor 
Paine  was  wholly  destitute.  A  man  of  humor  cannot  be  a  profes- 
sional agitator. 

The  eighteenth  century  pamphleteer  was  the  immediate  fore- 
runner of  the  nineteenth  century  journalist,  and  Paine's  best  work 


* .mm 


THOMAS  PAINE 


m 


e  charter  dis- 
tutions  at  the 
IS  views  were 
:  of  the  Eng- 
i  school.  It  is 
of  theories  to 
lot  necessarily 
iitical  writings 
lan  any  other 
isseau  and  to 
ons.  His  re- 
lity  it  aroused 

)er  and  more 

day  a  larger 
;nty  thousand 

estimates  its 

translations, 
ts  of  Man,  in 

Paine's  Con- 
ors in  Great 
iecution  gave 
5  completion, 
id  in  transla- 
popularity  of 
Lit  mainly  to 

Paine  knew 
5m,  and  how 

degree  the 
e  could  coin 

lessen  their 

natic  writing 

ople  a  writer 

Of  humor 

be  a  profes- 


is  rather  journalism  than  literature.  Such  work  is  in  its  nature 
transitory.  Paine's  Age  of  Reason  is  to-day  even  more  antiquated 
than  are  the  particular  phases  of  faith  which  at  the  time  especially 
invited  his  attack ;  for  the  fashion  of  scepticism  has  changed  far 
more  than  has  the  form  of  Christian  belief.  In  his  political  writ- 
ings there  is  more  of  permanent  interest.  We  have  grown  scepti- 
cal to-day  about  laws  of  nature,  and  we  doubt  the  finality  of 
political*  dogmas ';  but  we  recognize  that  Paine's  political  philoso- 
phy was  better  adapted  than  ours  to  a  revolutionary  crisis,  and 
we  cannot  deny  that  it  has  left  deep  traces  on  our  national  habits 
of  thought.  Paine's  political  writings  are  a  part  of  our  history ; 
and  students  of  our  history  will  always  find  it  advisable  to  read 

them. 

MuNROE  Smith 


*4' 


ediate  fore- 
's best  work 


v'^^fejp: 


66 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


lii 


GOVERNMENT   AND   FREEDOM 

But  where,  say  some,  is  the  King  of  America?  I'll  tell  you, 
friend,  he  reigns  above,  and  doth  not  make  havoc  of  mankind  like 
the  Royal  Brute  of  (ireat  Britain.  Yet  that  we  may  not  appear  to 
be  defective  even  in  earthly  honours,  let  a  day  be  solemnly  set 
apart  for  proclaiming  the  Charter ;  lei  it  be  brought  forth"  placed 
on  the  Hivine  Law,  the  Word  of  God;  let  a  crown  be  placed 
thereon,  by  which  the  world  may  know,  that  so  far  as  we  approve 
ol  monarchy,  that  in  America  the  law  is  king,  f'or  as  in  absolute 
governments  the  King  is  law,  so  in  free  countries  the  law  ought  to 
be  king  ;  aivl  there  ought  to  be  no  other.  But  lest  any  ill  use 
should  aitumaids  arise,  let  the  Crown  at  the  conclusion  of  the 
cereujony  be  ilt- molished,  and  scattered  among  the  people  whose 
right  it  is. 

A  go\  ernment  of  our  own  is  our  natural  right :  and  when  a  man 
serioiisly  reflects  on  the  precariousness  of  human  affairs,  he  will 
become  convinced,  that  it  is  infinitely  wiser  and  safer,  to  form  a 
constitution  of  our  own  in  a  cool  deliberate  manner,  while  we  have 
it  in  out  power,  than  to  tiust  such  an  interesting  event  to  time  and 
chance.  If  we  omit  it  now,  some  Massanello'  may  hereafter  arise, 
who,  U\  lUg  hold  of  popular  disquietudes,  may  collect  together  the 
desperate  and  the  discontented,  and  by  assuming  to  themselves 
the  powers  of  government,  finally  sweep  away  the  liberties  of  the 
Continent  like  a  deluge.  Should  the  government  of  America 
return  again  into  the  hands  of  Britain,  the  tottering  situation  of 
things  will  be  a  temptation  for  some  desperate  adventurer  to  try 
his  fortune  ;  and  in  such  case,  what  relief  can  Britain  give?  Ere 
she  could  hear  the  newr,  the  fatal  business  might  be  done ;  and 
ourselves  suffering  like  the  wretched  Britons  under  the  oppression 
of  the  Conqueror.  Ye  that  oppose  independance  now,  ye  know  not 
what  ye  do  :  ye  are  opening  a  door  to  eternal  tyranny,  by  keeping 
vacant  the  seat  of  government.     There  are  thousands  and  tens  of 

1  Thomas  Anello,  otherwise  Massanello,  a  fisherman  of  Naples, who  after  spirit- 
•  ing  up  his  countrymen  in  the  public  marlcct-place,  r-rainst  the  oppression  of  the 
Spaniards,  to  whom  the  place  was  then  subject,  pruuipted  them  to  revolt,  and  in 
the  space  of  a  day  became  King.  —Author's  Note. 


mmMMMM 


I'll  tell  you, 
mankind  like 
lot  appear  to 
solemnly  set 
forth*  placed 
n  be  placed 
3  we  approve 
IS  in  absolute 
law  ought  to 
it  any  ill  use 
usion  of  the 
)eople  whose 

when  a  man 
[fairs,  ho  will 
sr,  to  form  a 
■hile  we  have 
:  to  time  and 
reafter  arise, 
together  the 
)  themselves 
irties  of  the 

of  America 

situation  of 
iturer  to  try 

give  ?  Ere 
;  done ;  and 
:  oppression 
ye  know  not 
,  by  keeping 

and  tens  of 

'ho  after  spirit- 
Dression  of  the 
I  revolt,  and  in 


THOMAS  PAINE 

thousands,  who  would  think  it  glorious  to  expel  from  the  Conti- 
nent, that  barbarous  .nd  hellish  power,  which  hath  stirred  up  the 
Indians  and  the  Negroes  to  destroy  us ;  the  cruelty  hath  a  double 
guilt,  it  is  dealing  brutally  by  us,  and  treacherously  by  them. 

To  talk  of  friendship  with  those  in  whom  our  reason  forbids  us 
to  have  faith,  and  our  affections  \  anded  thro'  a  thousand  pores 
instruct  us  to  detest,  is  madness  and  folly.  Every  day  wears  out 
the  little  remains  of  kindred  between  us  and  them  ;  and  can  there 
be  any  reason  to  hope,  that  as  the  relationship  expires,  the  affec- 
tion will  encrease,  or  that  we  shall  agree  better  when  we  have  ten 
times  more  and  greater  concerns  to  quarrel  over  than  ever? 

Ye  that  tell  us  of  harmony  and  reconciliation,  can  ye  restore  to 
us  the  time  that  is  past?  Can  ye  give  to  prostitution  its  former 
innocence?  neither  can  ye  reconcile  Britain  and  America,  The 
last  cord  now  is  broken,  the  people  of  England  are  presenting 
addresses  against  us.  There  are  injuries  which  nature  cannot  for- 
give ;  she  would  cease  to  be  nature  if  she  did.  As  well  can  the 
lover  forgive  the  ravisher  of  his  mistress,  as  the  Continent  forgive 
the  murders  of  Britain.  The  Almighty  hath  implanted  in  us  these 
unextinguishable  feelings  for  good  and  wise  purposes.  They  are 
the  (iuardians  of  his  Image  in  our  hearts.  They  distinguish  us 
from  the  herd  of  common  animals.  The  social  compact  would 
dissolve,  and  justice  be  extirpated  from  the  earth,  or  have  only  a 
casual  existence  were  we  callous  to  tl^e  touches  of  affection.  The 
robber  and  the  murderer  would  ofteri  escape  unpunished,  did  not 
the  injuries  which  our  tempers  sustain,  provoke  us  into  justice. 

O  !  ye  that  love  mankind  !  Ye  thaf  dare  oppose  not  only  the 
tyranny  but  the  tyrant,  stand  forth  !  Every  spot  of  the  old  world 
is  overrun  with  oppression.  Freedom  hath  been  hunted  round 
the  Globe.  Asia  and  Africa  have  long  expelled  her.  luirope 
regards  her  like  a  stranger,  and  Engiavid  hath  given  her  warning 
to  depart.  O  !  receive  the  fugitive,  and  prepare  in  time  an 
asylum  for  mankind. 

[From  Common  Sense  :  Addressed  to  the  Inhabitants  of  America,  on  the 
folloiving  Interesting  Subject',  viz.:  I.  Of  the  O.igin  rnd  Design  of  Govern- 
ment in  General;  with  Concise  Reniarlis  on  the  English  Constitution.  II.  f)f 
Monaichy  and  Hereditary  Succession.  III.  Thoughts  or  the  Present  State 
of  American  Affairs.     IV.   Of  the  Present  Ability  of  America;    with  some 


1,S 


|i*t«*M 


68 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


Miscellaneou*  Reflection*.  Published  January  lo,  1776.  The  text  of  this  ex- 
tract and  those  following  is  reprinted  from  M.  D.  Conway's  Tht  Writings  of 
Thomas  Painty  by  permission  of  the  publishers,  G,  P.  Putnam's  Son;.  Vol.  i, 
pp.  99-101.] 


AN  AMERICAN  NAVY  < 

No  country  on  the  globe  is  so  happily  situated,  or  so  internally 
capable  of  raising  a  fleet  as  America.  Tar,  timber,  iron,  and 
cordage  are  her  natural  produce.  We  need  go  abroad  for  noth- 
ing. Whereas  the  Dutch,  who  make  large  profits  by  hiring  out 
their  ships  of  war  to  the  Spaniards  and  Portugese,  are  obliged  to 
import  most  of  the  materials  they  use.  We  ought  to  view  the 
building  a  fleet  as  an  article  of  commerce,  it  being  the  natural 
manufactory  of  this  country.  'Tis  the  best  money  we  can  lay  out. 
A  navy  when  finished  is  worth  more  than  it  cost :  And  is  that  nice 
point  in  national  policy,  in  which  commerce  and  protection  are 
united.  Let  us  build  ;  if  we  want  them  not,  we  can  sell ;  and  by 
that  means  replace  our  paper  currency  with  ready  gold  and  silver. 

In  point  of  manning  a  fleet,  people  in  general  run  into  great 
errors ;  it  is  not  necessary  that  one  fourth  part  should  be  sailors. 
The  Terrible  privateer,  captain  Death,  stood  the  hottest  engage- 
ment of  iny  ship  last  war,  yet  had  not  twenty  sailors  on  board, 
though  he."  complement  of  men  was  upwards  of  two  hundred.  A 
few  able  and  social  sailors  will  soon  instruct  a  sufficient  number  of 
active  landsmen  in  the  common  work  of  a  ship.  Wherefore  we 
never  can  be  more  capable  of  beginning  on  maritime  matters  than 
now,  while  our  timber  is  standing,  our  fisheries  blocked  up,  and 
our  sailors  and  shipwrights  out  of  employ.  Men  of  war,  of  seventy 
and  eighty  guns,  were  built  forty  years  ago  in  New  England,  and 
v;hy  not  the  same  now?  Ship  building  is  America's  greatest  pride, 
and  in  which  she  will,  in  time,  excel  the  whole  world.  The  great 
empires  of  the  east  are  mostly  inland,  and  consequently  excluded 
from  the  possibility  of  rivalling  her.  Africa  is  in  a  state  of  bar- 
barism ;  and  no  power  in  Europe,  hath  either  such  an  extent  of 
coastj  or  such  an  internal  supply  of  materials.  Wher^  nature  hath 
given  the  one,  she  hath  withheld  the  other ;  to  Aiijerica  only  hath 
she  been  liberal  to  both.    The  vast  empire  of  Russia  is  almost 


THOMAS  PAINE 


69 


text  of  this  ex- 
\t  Writi'igi  of 
\  Sonr.    Vol.  i. 


(  ■:■ 

SO  internally 
T,  iron,  and 
id  for  noth- 
y  hiring  out 
J  obliged  to 
to  view  the 

the  natural 
can  lay  out. 
I  is  that  nice 
otection  are 
lell;  and  by 
d  and  silver. 
n  into  great 
I  be  sailors, 
test  engage- 
s  on  board, 
lundred.  A 
t  number  of 
therefore  we 
natters  than 
ced  up,  and 
r,  of  seventy 
ngland,  and 
;atest  pride. 

The  great 
:ly  excluded 
tate  of  bar- 
1  extent  of 
nature  hath 
;a  only  hath 
a  is  almost 


shut  out  from  the  sea ;  wherefore  her  boundless  forests,  her  tar, 
iron,  and  cordage  are  only  articles  of  commerce. 

In  point  of  safety,  ought  we  to  be  without  a  fleet?  We  are  not 
the  little  people  now,  which  we  were  sixty  years  ago ;  at  that  time 
we  might  have  trusted  our  property  in  the  streets,  or  fields  rather, 
and  slept  securely  without  locks  or  bolts  to  our  doors  and  win- 
dows. The  case  19  now  altered,  and  our  methods  of  defence  ought 
to  improve  with  our  encrease  of  property.  A  common  pirate, 
twelve  months  ago,  might  have  come  up  the  Delaware,  and  laid 
the  city  of  Philadelphia  under  contribution  for  what  sum  he 
pleased  ;  and  the  same  might  have  happened  to  other  places.  Nay, 
any  daring  fellow,  in  a  brig  of  fourteen  or  sixteen  guns,  might  have 
robbed  the  whole  Continent,  and  carried  off  half  a  million  of  money. 
These  are  circumstances  which  demand  our  attention,  and  point 
out  the  necessity  of  naval  protection. 

Some  perhaps  will  say,  thf.t  after  we  have  made  it  up  with 
Britain,  she  will  protect  us.  C'an  they  be  so  unwise  as  to  mean, 
that  she  will  ^n  a  navy  in  our  Harbours  for  that  purpose? 
Common  sense  will  tell  us,  that  the  power  which  hath  endeavoured 
to  subdue  us,  is  of  all  others,  the  most  improper  to  defend  us. 
Conquest  may  be  effected  under  the  pretence  of  friendship ;  and 
ourselves,  after  a  long  and  brave  resistance,  be  at  last  cheated  into 
slavery.  And  if  her  ships  are  not  to  be  admitted  into  our  harbours, 
I  would  ask,  how  is  she  to  protect  us  ?  A  navy  three  or  four  thou- 
sand miles  off  can  be  of  little  use,  and  on  sudden  emergencies,  none 
at  all.  Wherefore  if  we  must  hereafter  protect  ourselves,  why  not 
do  it  for  ourselves?     Why  do  it  for  another? 

The  English  list  of  ships  of  war,  is  long  and  formidable,  but  not  a 
tenth  part  of  them  are  at  any  one  time  fit  for  service,  numbers  of  them 
are  not  in  being ;  yet  their  names  are  pompously  continued  in  the 
list,  if  only  a  plank  be  left  of  the  ship  :  and  not  a  fifth  part  of  such 
as  are  fit  for  service,  can  be  spared  on  any  one  station  at  one  time. 
The  East  and  West  Indies,  Mediterranean,  Africa,  and  other  parts, 
over  which  Britain  extends  her  claim,  make  large  demands  upon 
her  navy.  From  a  mixture  of  prejudice  and  inattention,  we  have 
contracted  a  false  notion  respecting  the  navy  of  England,  and  have 
talked  as  if  we  should  have  the  whole  of  it  to  encounter  at  once, 
and.  for  that  reason,  supposed  that  we  must  have  one  as  large ; 


iMUtMWllWiilMWMi'WW'iii  ..''J'''.'"' 


fO  .  AMERICAN  PROSE 

which  not  being  instantly  practicable,  has  been  inade  use  of  by 
a  set  of  disguised  Tories  to  discourage  our  beginning  thereon. 
Nothing  can  be  further  from  truth  than  this ;  for  if  America  had 
only  a  twentieth  part  of  the  naval  force  of  Britain,  she  would  be 
by  far  an  over-match  for  her ;  because,  as  we  neither  have,  nor  claim 
any  foreign  dominion,  our  whole  force  would  be  employed  on  our 
own  coast,  where  we  should,  in  the  long  run,  have  two  to  one  the 
advantage  of  those  who  had  three  or  four  thousand  miles  to  sail 
over,  before  they  could  attack  us,  and  the  same  distance  to  return 
in  order  to  refit  and  recruit.  And  although  Britain,  by  her  fleet, 
hath  a  check  over  our  trade  to  Europe,  we  have  as  large  a  one 
over  her  trade  to  the  West  Indies,  which,  by  laying  in  the  neigh- 
borhood of  the  Continent  lies  entirely  at  its  mercy. 

Some  method  might  be  fallen  on  to  keep  up  a  naval  force  in 
time  of  peace,  if  we  should  not  judge  it  necessary  to  support  a 
constant  navy.  If  premiums  were  to  be  given  to  Merchants  to 
build  and  employ  in  their  service,  ships  mounted  with  twenty, 
thirty,  forty,  or  fifty  guns,  (the  premiums  to  be  in  proportion  to 
the  loss  of  bulk  to  the  merchant,)  fifty  or  sixty  of  those  ships, 
with  a  few  guardships  on  constant  duty,  would  keep  up  a  suffi- 
cient navy,  and  that  without  burdening  ourselves  with  the  evil  so 
loudly  complained  of  in  England,  of  suffering  their  fleet  in  time 
of  peace  to  lie  rotting  in  the  docks.  To  unite  the  sinews  of  com- 
merce and  defence  is  sound  policy;  for  when  our  strength  and 
our  ricl\es  play  into  each  other's  hand,  we  need  fear  no  external 
enemy. 

[From  Common  Senst.    Writings,  vol.  i,  pp.  103-106.] 


THE  CRISIS 

These  are  the  times  that  try  men's  souls.  The  summer  soldier 
and  the  sunshine  patriot  will,  in  this  crisis,  shrink  from  the  service 
of  their  country ;  but  he  that  stands  it  now,  deserves  the  love  and 
thanks  of  man  and  woman.  Tyranny,  like  h':il,  is  not  easily  con- 
quered ;  yet  we  have  this  consolation  with  us,  that  the  harder  the 
conflict,  the  more  glorious  the  triumph.  What  we  obtain  too 
cheap,  we  esteem  too  lightly  :  it  is  dearness  only  that  gives  every 


IKM 


Mi 


le  use  of  by 
ing  thereon. 
\merica  had 
he  would  be 
ve,  nor  claim 
loyed  on  our 
J  to  one  the 
miles  to  sail 
nee  to  return 
by  her  fleet, 
large  a  one 
n  the  neigh- 
aval  force  in 
to  support  a 
Merchants  to 
with  twenty, 
)roportion  to 
those  ships, 
p  up  a  suffi- 
\  the  evil  so 
fleet  in  time 
jews  of  corn- 
strength  and 
r  no  external 


mmer  soldier 
m  the  service 
the  love  and 
ot  easily  con- 
he  harder  the 
e  obtain  too 
t  gives  every 


THOMAS  PAINE 


7» 


tiling  its  value.  Heaven  knows  how  to  put  a  proper  price  upon 
its  goods ;  and  it  would  be  strange  indeed  if  so  celestial  an  article 
as  Krcruom  should  not  be  highly  rated.  Britain,  with  an  army  to 
enforce  her  tyranny,  has  declared  that  she  has  a  right  {not  only  to 
tax)  but  "  to  niND  us  in  all  ca.ses  whai-soever,"  and  if  being 
bound  in  that  manner,  is  not  slavery,  then  there  is  not  such  a  thing 
as  slavery  upon  earth.  Even  the  expression  a  impious;  for  so 
unlimited  a  power  can  belong  only  to  God. 

Whether  the  independence  of  the  continent  was  declared  too 
soon,  or  delayed  too  long,  I  will  not  now  enter  into  as  an  argument ; 
my  own  simple  opinion  is,  that  had  it  been  eight  months  earlier,  it 
would  have  been  much  better.  We  did  not  make  a  proper  use  of 
last  winter,  neither  could  we,  while  we  were  in  a  dependant  state. 
However,  the  fault,  if  it  were  one,  was  ill  our  own  ;  *  we  have  none 
to  blame  but  ourselves.  But  no  great  deal  is  lost  yet.  All  that 
Howe  has  been  doing  for  this  month  past,  is  rather  a  ravage  than 
a  conquest,  which  the  spirit  of  the  Jerseys,  a  year  ago,  would  have 
quickly  repulsed,  and  which  time  and  a  little  resolution  will  soon 
recover. 

I  have  as  little  superstition  in  me  as  any  man  living,  but  my 
secret  opinion  has  ever  been,  and  still  is,  that  God  Almighty  will 
not  give  up  a  people  to  military  destruction,  or  leave  them  un- 
supportedly  to  perish,  who  have  so  earnestly  and  so  repeatedly 
sought  to  avoid  the  calamities  of  war,  by  every  decent  method 
which  wisdom"  could  invent.  Neither  have  I  so  much  of  the 
infidel  in  me,  as  to  suppose  that  He  has  relinquished  the  govern- 
ment of  the  world,  and  given  us  up  to  the  care  of  devils  ;  and  as 
I  do  not,  I  cannot  see  on  what  grounds  the  king  of  Britain  can 
look  up  to  heaven  for  help  against  us :  a  common  murderer, 
a  highwayman,  or  a  house-Lrcaker,  has  as  good  a  pretence  as  he. 

[From  the  first  Crisis,  printed  in  the  F innsylvania  Journal,  December  19, 
1776.       Jfri/j/i^,  vol.  i,  pp.  170-171.]  ^i.; 

♦  The  present  winter  is  worth  an  age,  if .  i  ghtly  employed ;  but.  if  lost  or  neglected, 
the  whole  continent  will  partake  of  th°  evil ,  and  there  is  no  punishment  that  man 
does  not  deserve,  be  he  who,  or  w'-at,  or  wh?re  he  will,  that  may  be  the  means  of 
sacrificing  a  season  so  prec'cas  and  useful,  —  Author's  Note,  a  citation  from  his 
Common  Sense. 


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f9 


AMEJilCAN  PROSE 


THE   UNIVERSAL   RKJHT  OF  CONSCIENCE 

The  Frendi  Constitution  hath  al)olisheil  or  renounced  Tolera- 
tion and  Inloierance  also,  and  hath  established  Univkrsal  Right 

OF    CONSCIKNCK. 

Toleration  is  not  the  opposite  of  Intolerance,  but  is  the  counter- 
feit of  it.  Both  are  despotisms.  The  one  assumes  to  itself  the 
right  of  withholding  Liberty  of  Conscience,  and  the  other  of 
granting  it.  The  one  is  the  Pope  armed  with  fire  and  faggot,  and 
the  other  is  the  Pope  selling  or  granting  indulgences.  The  for- 
mer is  church  and  state,  and  the  latter  is  church  and  traffic. 

But  Toleration  may  be  viewed  in  a  much  stronger  light.  Man 
worships  not  himself,  but  his  Maker ;  and  the  liberty  of  conscience 
which  he  claims  is  not  for  the  service  of  himself,  but  of  his  God. 
In  this  case,  therefore,  we  must  necessarily  have  the  associated 
idea  of  two  things  ;  the  morta/ who  renders  the  worship,  and  the 
Immortal  Being  who  is  worshipped.  Toleration,  therefore,  places 
itself,  not  between  man  and  man,  nor  between  church  and  church, 
nor  between  one  denomination  of  religion  and  another,  but  be- 
tween God  and  man ;  between  the  being  who  worships,  and  the 
Being  who  is  worshipped;  and  by  the  same  act  of  assumed 
authority  which  il  tolerates  man  to  pay  his  worship,  it  presump- 
tuously and  blasphemously  sets  itself  up  to  tolerate  the  Almighty 
to  receive  it.  ' 

Were  a  bill  brought  into  any  Parliament,  entitled,  "An  Act 
to  tolerate  or  grant  liberty  to  the  Almighty  to  receive  the  worship 
of  a  Jew  or  Turk,"  or  "  to  prohibit  the  Almighty  from  receiving 
it,"  all  men  would  startle  and  call  it  blasphemy.  There  would  be 
an  uproar.  The  presumption  of  toleration  in  religious  matters 
would  then  present  itself  unmasked ;  but  the  presumption  is  not 
the  less  because  the  name  of  "  Man  "  only  appears  to  those  laws, 
for  the  associated  idea  of  the  worshipper  and  the  worshipped  can- 
not be  separated.  Who  then  art  thou,  vain  dust  and  ashes !  by 
whatever  name  thou  art  called,  whether  a  King,  a  Bishop,  a  Church, 
or. a  State,  a  Parliament,  or  anything  else,  that  obtrudest  thine 
insignificance  between  the  soul  of  man  and  its  Maker?  Mind  thine 
own  concerns.     If  he  believes  not  as  thou  believest,  it  is  a  proof 


!Ba«»fri»iiiiaH«iiimBiffi^^ 


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THOMAS  PAINE 


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NCE 

ricccl  Tfllera- 
ERSAL  Right 

I  the  counter- 
to  itself  the 
the  other  of 
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:s.  The  for- 
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light.  Man 
of  conscience 
t  of  his  God. 
lie  associated 
ship,  and  the 
irefore,  places 
h  and  church, 
ither,  but  be- 
hips,  and  the 
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I,  it  presump- 
the  Almighty 

ed,  "  An  Act 
e  the  worship 
•om  receiving 
lere  would  be 
gious  matters 
tiption  is  not 
to  those  laws, 
irshipped  can- 
nd  ashes !  by 
lop,  a  Church, 
itrudest  thine 
>  Mind  thine 
it  is  a  proof 


that  thou  belicvest  not  as  he  believes,  and  there  is  no  earthly 
power  can  determine  between  you. 

With  respect  to  what  are  called  denominations  of  religion,  if 
every  one  is  left  to  judge  of  its  own  religion,  there  is  no  such 
thing  as  a  religion  that  is  wrong ;  but  if  they  are  to  judge  of  each 
other's  religion,  there  is  no  such  thing  as  a  religion  that  is  right ; 
and  therefore  all  the  world  is  right,  or  all  the  world  is  wrong. 
But  with  respect  to  religion  itself,  without  regard  to  names,  and  as 
directing  itself  from  the  universal  family  of  mankind  to  the  Divine 
object  of  all  adoration,  it  is  man  bringing  to  his  Maker  the  fruits 
of  his  heart;  and  though  those  fruits  may  differ  from  each  other 
like  the  fruits  of  the  earth,  the  grateful  tribute  of  every  one  is 
accepted. 

A  Bishop  of  Durham,  or  a  Bishop  of  Winchester,  or  the  arch- 
bishop who  heads  the  dukes,  will  not  refuse  a  tythe-sheaf  of  wheat 
because  it  is  not  a  cock  of  hay,  nor  a  cock  of  hay  because  it  is 
not  a  sheaf  of  wheat ;  nor  a  pig,  because  it  is  neither  one  nor  the 
other ;  but  these  same  persons,  under  the  figure  of  an  established 
church,  will  not  permit  their  Maker  to  receive  the  varied  tythes 
of  man's  devotion. 

[From  Rights  of  Man,  being  an  Ansxver  to  Mr.  Burie's  Attack  on  the 
French  Revolution,  1 791.      Writings,  vol.  ii,  pp.  3*5-326.] 


A  PROFESSION  OF  FAITH 

It  has  been  my  intention,  for  several  years  past,  to  publish  my 
thoughts  upon  religion ;  I  am  well  aware  of  the  difficulties  that 
attend  the  subject,  and  from  that  consideration,  had  reserved  it  to 
a  more  advanced  period  of  life.  I  intended  it  to  be  the  last 
offering  I  should  make  to  my  fellow-()itizens  of  all  nations,  and 
that  at  a  time  when  the  purity  of  the  motive  that  induced  me  to  it 
could  not  admit  of  a  question,'  even  by  those  who  might  disap- 
prove the  work. 

The  circumstance  that  has  now  taken  place  in  France,  of  the 
total  abolition  of  the  whole  national  order  of  priesthood,  and  of 
everything  appertaining  to  compulsive  systems  of  religion,  and 
compulsive  articles  of  faith,  has  not  only  precipitated  my  inten- 


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74 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


tion,  but  rendered  a  work  of  this  kind  exceedingly  necessary,  lest 
in  the  general  wreck  of  superstition,  of  false  systems  of  goveni- 
ment,  and  false  theology,  we  lose  sight  of  morality,  of  Immanity, 
and  of  the  theology  that  is  true. 

As  several  of  my  colleagues,  and  others  of  my  fellow-citizens  of 
France,  have  given  me  the  example  of  making  their  voluntary 
and  individual  profession  of  faith,  I  also  will  make  mine ;  and  I 
do  this  with  all  that  sincerity  and  frankness  with  which  the  mind 
of  man  communicates  with  itself. 

I  believe  in  one  God,  and  no  more ;  and  I  hope  for  happiness 
beyond  this  life. 

I  believe  [in]  the  equality  of  man,  and  I  believe  that  religious 
duties  consist  in  doing  justice,  loving  mercy,  and  endeavouring  to 
make  our  fellow-creatures  happy. 

But,  lest  it  should  be  supposed  that  I  believe  many  other  things 
in  addition  to  these,  I  shall,  in  the  progress  of  this  work,  declare 
the  things  I  do  not  believe,  and  my  reasons  for  not  believing  them. 

I  do  not  believe  in  the  creed  professed  by  the  Jewish  church, 
by  the  Roman  church,  by  the  Greek  church,  by  the  Turkish 
church,  by  the  Protestant  church,  nor  by  any  church  that  I 
know  of.     My  own  mind  is  my  own  church. 

All  national  institutions  of  churches,  whether  Jewish,  Christian, 
or  Turkish,  appear  to  me  no  other  than  human  inventions  set  up 
to  terrify  and  enslave  mankind,  and  monopolize  power  and  profit. 

I  do  not  mean  by  this  declaration  to  condemn  those  who  oe- 
lieve  otherwise;  they  have  the  same  right  to  their  belief  as  I 
have  to  mine.  But  it  is  necessary  to  the  happiness  of  man,  that 
he  be  mentally  faithful  to  himself.  Infidelity  does  not  consist  in 
believing,  or  in  disbelieving ;  it  consists  in  professing  to  believe 
what  he  does  not  believe. 

It  is  impossible  to  calculate  the  moral  mischief,  if  I  may  so  ex- 
press it,  that  mental  lying  has  produced  in  society.  When  a  man 
has  so  far  corrupted  and  prostituted  the  chastity  of  his  mind,  as 
to  subscribe  his  professional  belief  to  things  he  does  not  believe, 
he  has  prepared  himself  for  the  commission  of  every  other  crime. 
He  takes  up  the  trade  of  a  priest  for  the  sake  of  gain,  and,  in 
order  to  qualify  himself  for  that  trade,  he  begins  with  a  perjury. 
Can  we  conceive  anything  more  destructive  to  morality  than  this? 


:  ■.?-:.,  •: 


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THOMAS  PAINE. 


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necessary,  lest 
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heir  voluntary 

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bich  the  mind 

for  happiness 

that  religious 
ideavouring  to 

\y  other  things 
work,  declare 
jelieving  them, 
fewish  church, 
Y  the  Turkish 
church  that  I 


Soon  after  I  had  published  the  pamphlet  Common  Sense,  in 
America,  I  saw  the  exceeding  probability  that  a  revolution  in  the 
system  of  government  would  be  followed  by  a  revolution  in  the 
system  of  religion.  The  adulterous  connection  of  church  and  state, 
wherever  it  had  taken  place,  whether  Jewish,  Christian,  or  Turkish, 
had  so  effectually  prohibited,  by  pains  and  penalties,  every  discus- 
sion upon  established  creeds,  and  upon  first  principles  of  religion, 
that  until  the  system  of  government  should  be  changed,  those  sub- 
jects could  not  be  brought  fairly  and  openly  before  the  world ;  but 
that  whenever  this  should  be  done,  a  revolution  in  the  system  of 
religion  would  follow.  Human  inventions  and  priest-craft  would 
be  detected ;  and  man  would  return  to  the  pure,  unmixed,  and 
unadulterated  belief  of  one  God,  and  no  more. 

[The  Age  of  Keason,  I794-I795t  chapter  i,  "The  Author's  Profession  of 
Faith."     Wrilings,  vol.  iv,  pp.  21-23.] 


f  I  may  so  ex- 
When  a  man 
)f  his  mind,  as 
es  not  believe, 
■y  other  crime, 
f  gain,  and,  in 
nx'a  a  perjury, 
dity  than  this? 


»        I 


■ft 
I 


;5« 


WMW 


THOMAS   JEFFERSON 

[Thomas  Jefferson  was  born,  of  a  good  family,  at  ShadiVell,  Albemarle  Co., 
Va.,  April  13,  1743.  He  received  an  excellent  education  at  William  and 
Mary  College,  saw  much  of  the  best  society,  studied  law  under  Chancellor 
Wythe,  began  its  practice,  and  achieved  at  once  a  considerable  success.  At 
the  age  of  twenty-six  he  entered  the  House  of  Burgesses,  and  served  off  and 
on  with  much  oistinction  until  the  breaking  out  of  the  Revolution.  He  then 
entered  Congress,  where  he  became  the  chief  drafter  of  state  papers,  the 
most  important  of  these  being  the  Declaration  of  Independence.  After  this 
he  returned  to  Virginian  politics,  labored  successfully  to  modify  the  state  laws 
in  a  democratic  direction,  and  served  as  governor  for  two  years,  during  which 
period  his  administration  was  much  harassed  by  the  British.  In  1783  he  re- 
entered Congress  and  took  part  in  important  legislation.  The  next  year  he 
went  to  France  as  minister  plenipotentiary,  succeeding  Franklin  in  1 785.  'lis 
career  as  a  diplomat  was  distinctly  successful,  but  was  cut  short  by  his  accept- 
ance of  the  post  of  Secretary  of  State  in  Washington's  first  cabinet.  Under 
the  new  government  he  was  subsequently  made  Vice-President  in  1797  and 
President  from  1801  to  1809.  His  two  presidential  administrations  were  not 
•narked  by  much  executive  strength,  but  the  first  secured  to  the  country  the 
vast  territory  of  Louisiana.  He  was  succeeded  by  his  disciple  Madison,  and 
during  his  retirement  at  Monticello  maintained  his  grip  upon  politics  by  his 
large  correspondence.  From  1817  to  his  death,  on  July  4,  1826,  he  was  mainly 
interested  in  founding  the  Unive-^'ty  of  Virginia.  Throughout  his  old  age  he 
was  looked  up  to  as  the  chief  political  theorist  and  most  typical  republican  of 
the  country,  but  this  public  homage  entailed  a  hospitality  that  left  him  poor. 
The  best  editions  of  his  writings  are  the  so-called  Congressional,  in  nine  vol- 
umes, and  that  of  P.  L.  Ford,  not  yet  complete.] 

If  Jefferson  be  judged  by  any  single  piece  of  work,  except  per- 
haps the  Declaration  of  Independence,  or  by  the  general  qualities 
of  his  style,  he  cannot  in  any  fairness  be  termed  a  great  writer. 
His  Notes  on  Virginia,  his  only  book,  may  be  justly  said  to  be 
interesting  and  valuable,  but  cannot  rank  high  as  literature.  His 
stajepapers,  with  the  exception  made  above,  and  his  official  reports 
are  excellent  of  their  kind,  but  their  kind  is  not  iiuffioiently  literary 
to  warrant  any  one  in  holding  them  up  as  models.     Even  his  count- 

76 


lite^fr^' 


m: 


THOMAS  JEFFERSON 


77 


Albemarle  Co., 
X  William  and 
der  Chancellor 
le  success.  At 
I  served  off  and 
lion.  He  then 
Ltu  papers,  the 
ice.  After  this 
y  the  state  laws 
3,  during  which 
In  1783  he  re- 
e  next  year  he 
>  in  1785.  'lis 
t  by  his  accept- 
abinet.  Under 
nt  in  1797  and 
ations  were  not 
the  country  the 
;  Madison,  and 
I  politics  by  his 
I,  he  was  mainly 
t  his  old  age  he 
il  republican  of 
t  left  him  poor, 
al,  in  nine  vol- 


;,  except  per- 
eral  qualities 
great  writer, 
y  said  to  be 
;rature.  His 
ifficial  reports 
iently  literary 
rtn  his  count- 


less letters,  while  fascinating  to  the  student  of  his  character,  are  rather 
barren  of  charm  when  read  without  some  ulterior  purpose.  In  short, 
while  Jefferson  was  plainly  the  most  widely  cultured  of  our  early 
statesmen  and  was  thus  in  a  real  sense  a  man  of  letters,  he  would 
be  little  read  to-day  if  his  fame  depended  either  upon  his  author- 
ship of  a  masterpiece  in  the  shape  of  a  book  or  upon  his  posses- 
sion of  a  powerful  or  charming  style. 

We  see  at  once  that  in  at  least  two  important  respects  Jefferson 
is  inferior  to  Franklin  as  a  writer.  Franklin  possessed  a  style  and 
has  given  us  a  classic.  Nor  is  it  at  all  clear  tliat,  judged  from  the 
point  of  view  of  mere  readableness,  Jefferson  rises  above  or  equals 
iome  of  his  contemporaries,  such  as  Fisher  Ames,  or  Alexander 
Hamilton,  or  his  rival  as  a  drafter  of  state  papers,  John  Dickinson. 
Yet  he  was  surely  in  one  important  respect  a  greater  writer  than  any 
of  these  men,  not  even  Frajiklin  excepted.  His  was  the  most  in- 
fluential pen  of  his  times  upon  his  contemporaries,  and  it  is  to  his 
writings  that  posterity  turns  with  most  interest  whenever  the  par- 
poses,  the  hopes,  the  fears  of  the  great  Revolutionary  epoch  become 
matters  of  study.  If  Franklin's  writings  reveal  a  personality,  Jeffer- 
son's reveal,  if  the  exaggeration  may  be  pardoned,  the  aspirations 
and  ideals  of  an  age. 

They  reveal  also  the  personality  of  Jefferson  himself,  but  so 
subtle  was  that  great  man  that  we  can  never  feel  that  we  under- 
stand him  fully.  We  may  learn  to  understand,  however,  with  fair 
thoroughness  the  theory  of  government  that  he  had  worked  out  for 
himself  froth  French  and  English  sources ;  we  may  see  how  every 
letter  he  wrote  carried  his  democratic  doctrines  further  afield ; 
we  may  feel  him  getting  a  firm  grasp  not  merely  upon  his  con- 
temporaries but  upon  generations  yet  to  be ;  finally,  we  cai;  observe 
yawning  across  his  later  writings  the  political  chasm  into  which  the 
young  republic  was  one  day  to  fall.  But  books  that  enable  us  to 
do  all  this  are  certainly  great  in  their  way,  and  so  is  the  hand  that 
penned  their  contents.  Jeffersoh  is  not  a  Burke,  yet  it  is  as  true  to 
say  that  he  must  be  read  by  any  one  who  wou'.J  comprehend  the 
origin  and  development  of  American  political  thought,  as  it  is  to 
say  that  Burke  must  be  read  by  any  similar  student  of  British 
political  thought. 

But  has  not  Jefferson  given  us  a  masterpiece  ?    In  a  book,  no ; 


I 


■IM»*-^'- 


#»».' 


79 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


in  a  state  paper,  yes.  The  Declaration  of  Independence,  whatever 
may  be  the  justice  of  the  criticisms  directed  against  this  and  that 
clause  or  statement,  is  a  true  piece  of  Uterature,  because  ever  since 
it  was  written  it  has  been  alive  with  emotion.  It  may  have 
charged  George  III  with  crimes  he  never  committed,  but  even  if 
we  were  to  view  it  as  pure  fiction  (which  it  is  not),  it  would  never- 
theless, though  we  were  to  read  it  a  thousand  times,  stir  every  one 
of  us  that  loves  liberty  and  his  native  land  and  has  a  sense  for  the 
rhetoric  of  denunciation  and  aspiration.  It  answers  the  chief 
practical  tests  of  good  literature  —  the  test  of  contemporaneous 
popularity  at  home  and  abroad,  and  the  test  of  current  popular 
appreciation.  The  man  who  drafted  such  a  document  knew  the 
spirit  of  his  own  people  and  could  express  it  to  their  satisfaction ; 
to  deny  him  literary  power  of  a  high  order  would  therefore  be 
pedantic. 

In  conclusion,  while  we  are  abundantly  justified  in  including 
Jeflerson  in  any  volume  devoted  to  the  important  prose-writers  of 
America,  we  should  not  be  justified  in  proposing  his  writings  as 
models  for  any  student  of  English.  Our  national  taste  has  changed, 
and  the  fervent  eloquence  of  the  Declaration  would  be  distinctly 
out  of  place  to-day.  If  we  wrote  letters  to  the  same  extent  that 
our  ancestors  did,  we  should  still  need  to  set  before  ourselves 
writers  of  more  ease  and  freedom  and  charm  than  Jefferson,  if  we 
wished  to  produce  upon  our  own  contemporaries  a  tithe  of  the 
influence  he  managed  to  convey  in  his  somewhat  cumbrous  and 
stiff  though  very  subtle  fashion.  This  is  only  to  say  that  the  art  of 
writing  prose  has  made  great  strides  since  Jefferson's  time  ;  but  we 
must  not  forget  that,  if  his  pen  was  not  that  of  a  chastened  writer, 
it  was  par  excellence  that  of  a  ready  and  wonderfully  effective  one. 

W.  P.  Trent 


mmm 


IWraS'f*^^iA**%a**^ 


nee,  whatever 
this  and  that 
ise  ever  since 
[t  may  have 
1,  but  even  if 
would  never- 
tir  every  one 
sense  for  the 
;rs  the  chief 
emporaneous 
rent  popular 
ent  knew  the 
satisfaction ; 
therefore  be 

in  including 
)se-writers  of 
is  writings  as 
has  changed, 
be  distinctly 
:  extent  that 
)re  ourselves 
ifferson,  if  we 
,  tithe  of  the 
ambrous  and 
lat  the  art  of 
time ;  but  we 
itened  writer, 
effective  one. 

.  P.  Trent 


THOMAS  JEFFERSON 


DECLARATION   OF  INDEPENDENCE 


n 


A  DECLARATION  by  the  Representatives  of  the  United  States  ok 
America  in  General  Congress  assembled. 

When  in  the  course  of  human  events  it  becomes  necessary  for 
one  people  to  dissolve  the  political  bands  which  have  connected 
them  with  another  and  to  assume  among  the  powers  of  the  earth 
the  separate  and  equal  station  to  which  the  laws  of  nature  and  of 
nature's  God  entitle  them,  a  decent  respect  to  the  opinions  of 
mankind  requires  that  ihey  should  declare  the  causes  which-impel 
them  to  the  separation. 

We  hold  these  truths  to  be  self-evident :  that  all  men  are  created 
equal ;  that  they  are  endowed  by  their  creator  with  inherent  and 
inalienable  rights,  that  among  these  are  life,  liberty,  and  the  pur- 
suit of  happiness ;  that  to  secure  these  rights  governments  are  in- 
stituted among  men  deriving  their  just  powers  from  the  consent 
of  the  governed ;  that  whenever  any  form  of  government  becomes 
destructive  of  these  ends,  it  is  the  right  of  the  people  to  alter  or 
to  abolish  it,  and  to  institute  new  government,  laying  its  foundation 
on  3uch  principles  and  organizing  its  pow-trs  in  such  form,  as  to 
them  shall  seem  most  likely  to  effect  their  happiness.  Prudence 
indeed  will  dictate  that  governments  long  established  should  not 
be  changed  for  light  and  transient  causes :  and  accordingly  all 
expf.rience  hath  shown  that  mankind  are  more  disposed  to  suffer 
while  evils  are  sufferable,  than  to  right  themselves  by  abolishing 
the  forms  to  which  they  are  accustomed.  But  when  a  long  train 
of  abuses  and  usurpations  begun  at  a  distinguished  period  and 
pursuing  invariably  the  same  object,  evinces  a  design  to  reduce 
them  under  absolute  despotism,  it  is  their  right,  it  is  their  duty, 
to  throw  off  such  government  and  to  provide  new  guards  for  their 
future  security.  Such  has  been  the  patient  sufferance  of  these 
colonies,  and  such  is  now  the  necessity  which  constrains  them  to 
expunge  their  former  systems  of  government.  The  history  of  the 
present  king  of  Great  Britain  is  a  history  of  unremitting  injuries 
and  usurpations,  among  which  appears  no  solitary  fact  to  contra- 
dict the  uniform  tenor  of  the  rest ;  but  all  having  in  direct  object 
the  establishment  of  an  absolute  tyranny  over  these  states.     To 


.4", 
if 


(? 


aimiiniWiirtH' 


80 


AMERICAN  JA'OSE 


prove  this  let  facts  be  submitted  to  a  candid  world,  for  the  truth 
of  which  we  pledge  a  faith  yet  unsullied  by  falsehood. 

He  has  refused  his  assent  to  laws  the  mos^  wholesome  and  nec- 
essary for  the  public  good: 

He  has  forbidden  his  governors  to  pass  laws  of  immediate  and 
pressing  importance,  unless  suspended  in  their  operation  till  his 
assent  should  be  obtained,  and  when  so  suspended,  he  has  utterly 
neglected  to  attend  to  them. 

He  has  refused  to  pass  other  laws  for  the  accommodation  of  large 
districts  of  people  unless  those  people  would  relinquish  the  right 
of  representation,  in  the  legislature,  a  right  inestimable  to  them, 
and  formidable  to  tyrants  only. 

He  has  called  t'>gether  legislative  bodies  at  places  unusual,  and 
uncomfortable  and  distant  from  the  depository  of  their  public 
records,  for  the  sole  purpose  of  fatigumg  them  into  compliance 
with  his  measures. 

He  has  dissolved  Representative  houses  repeatedly  and  continu- 
ally for  opposing  with  manly  firmness  his  invasions  on  the  right  of 
the  people : 

He  has  refused  for  a  long  time  after  such  dissolutions  to  cause 
others  to  be  elected,  whereby  the  legislative  powers  incapable 
of  annihilation,  have  returned  to  the  people  at  large  for  their 
exercise,  the  state  remaining  in  the  mean  time  exposed  to  all  the 
dangers  of  invasion  from  without  and  convulsions  within  : 

He  has  endeavored  to  prevent  the  population  of  these  states, 
for  that  purpose  obstructing  the  laws  for  naturalization  of  foreign- 
ers ;  refusing  to  pass  others  to  encourage  their  migrations  hither ; 
and  raising  the  conditions  of  new  appropriations  of  lands : 

He  has  suffered  the  adniinistration  of  justice  totally  to  cease  in 
some  of  these  states,  refusing  his  assent  to  laws  for  establishing 
judiciary  powers : 

He  has  made  judges  dependant  on  his  will  alone,  for  the  tenure 
of  their  offices  and  the  amount  and  payment  of  their  salaries  : 

He  has  erected  a  multitude  of  new  offices  by  a  self  assumed 
power  and  sent  hither  swarms  of  officers  to  harass  our  people  and 
eat  out  their  substance  : 

He  has  kept  among  us  in  times  of  peace,  standing  armies  and 
ships  of  war  without  the  consent  of  our  legislatures  : 


'^'HifilMiMalBIIBltWMIIfliiiiMM 


iitaniMMiMi 


itMMI 


mum 


THOMAS  JEFFERSON 


8l 


for  the  truth 

)od. 

ame  and  nec- 

(imediate  and 
ration  till  \m 
fie  has  utterly 

lation  of  large 
lish  the  right 
ible  to  them, 

I  unusual,  and 
r  their  public 

0  compliance 

r  and  continu- 
n  the  right  of 

tions  to  cause 

'ers  incapable 

irge  for  their 

osed  to  all  the 

thin: 

f  these  states, 

on  of  foreign- 

ations  hither ; 

lands : 

ly  to  cease  in 

)r  establishing 

for  the  tenure 
r  salaries : 

1  self  assumed 
ur  people  and 


ig  armies 


and 


He  has  affected  to  render  the  military,  independent  of  and 
superior  to  the  civil  power  : 

He  has  combined  with  others  to  subject  us  to  a  jurisdiction  for- 
eign to  our  constitutions  and  unacknowledged  by  our  laws,  giving 
his  assent  to  their  acts  of  pretended  legislation,  for  quartering 
large  bodies  of  armed  troops  among  us ;  for  protecting  them  by  a 
mock  trial  from  punishment  for  any  murders  which  they  should 
commit  on  *he  inhabitants  of  these  states ;  for  cutting  off  our 
trade  with  all  parts  of  the  world ;  for  imposing  taxes  on  us  with- 
out our  consent ;  for  depriving  us  in  many  cases  of  the  benefits 
of  trial  by  jury ;  for  transporting  us  beyond  the  seas  to  be  tried 
for  pretended  offences ;  for  abolishing  the  free  system  of  English 
laws  in  a  neighboring  province,  establishing  therein  an  arbitrary 
government  and  enlarging  its  boundaries  so  as  to  render  it  at  once 
an  example  and  fit  instrument  for  introducing  the  same  absolute 
rule  into  these  colonies ;  for  taking  away  our  charters,  abolishing 
our  most  valuable  laws,  and  fundamentally  the  forms  of  our  gov- 
ernments, for  suspending  our  own  legislatures  and  declaring 
themselves  invested  with  power  to  legislate  for  us  in  all  cases 
whatsoever : 

He  has  abdicated  government  here,  withdrawing  his  governors, 
and  declaring  us  out  of  his  allegiance  and  protection. 

He  has  plundered  our  seas,  ravaged  our  coasts,  burnt  our  towns 
and  destroyed  the  lives  of  our  people : 

He  is  at  this  time  transporting  large  armies  of  foreign  merce- 
naries to  complete  the  works  of  death,  desolation  and  tyranny  al- 
ready begun  with  circumstances  of  cruelty  and  perfidy  unworthy 
the  head  of  a  civilized  nation : 

He  has  endeavored  to  bring  on  the  inhabitants  of  our  frontiers 
the  merciless  Indian  savages,  whose  known  rule  of  warfare  is  an 
undistinguished  destruction  of  all  ages,  sexes,  and  conditions  of 
existence : 

He  has  incited  treasonable  insurrections  of  our  fellow-citizens, 
with  the  allurements  of  forfeiture  and  confiscation  of  our  property : 

He  has  constrained  others,  taken  captive  on  the  high  seas  to  bear 
arms  against  their  country,  to  become  the  executioners  of  their 
friends  and  brethren,  or  to  fall  themselves  by  their  hands : 

He  has  waged  cruel  war  against  human  nature  itself,  violating 


11 


K-'iHt-'i^' 


! 


8a 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


its  most  sacred  rights  of  life  and  liberty  in  the  persons  of  distant 
people,  who  never  offended  him,  captivating  and  carrying  Ihem 
into  slavery  in  another  hemisphere,  or  to  incur  miserable  death  in 
their  transportation  thither.  This  piratical  warfare,  the  opprobrium 
of  infidel  powers,  is  the  warfare  of  the  Christian  king  of  Great 
Britain.  Determined  to  keep  open  a  market  where  Men  should 
be  bought  and  sold,  he  has  prostituted  his  negative  for  suppressing 
every  legislative  attempt  to  prohibit  or  to  restrain  this  execrable 
commerce :  and  that  this  assemblage  of  horrors  might  want  no 
fact  of  distinguished  dye,  he  is  now  exciting  those  very  people  to 
rise  in  arms  among  us,  and  to  purchase  that  liberty  of  which  he 
has  deprived  them  by  murdering  the  people  upon  whcm  he  also 
obtruded  them  ;  thus  paying  off  former  crime  committed  against 
the  liberties  of  one  pec,)le,  with  crimes  which  he  urges  them  to 
commit  against  the  hves  of  another. 

In  every  stage  oi'  the  je  oppressions  we  have  petitioned  for  re- 
d'.ess  in  the  most  humlle  ierms;  our  repeated  petitions  have  been 
answered  only  by  repeated  injuries.  A  prince  whose  character  is 
thus  marked  by  every  act  which  may  define  a  tyrant,  is  unfit  to  be 
the  ruler  of  a  people  who  mean  to  be  free.  Future  ages  will 
scarce  believe  that  the  hardiness  of  one  man  adventured  within 
the  short  compass  of  twelve  years  only,  to  build  a  foundation,  so 
broad  and  undisgr.ised  for  tyranny  over  a  people  fostered  and 
fixed  in  principles  jf  freedom. 

Nor  have  we  been  wanting  in  attentions  to  our  British  brethren. 
We  have  warned  them  from  time  to  time  of  attempts  by  their 
legislature  to  extend  an  unwarrantable  jurisdiction  over  these  our 
states.  We  have  reminded  them  of  the  circumstances  of  our  emi- 
gration and  settlement  here,  no  one  of  which  could  warrant  so 
strange  a  pretension :  that  these  were  effected  at  the  expence  of 
our  own  blood  and  treasure,  unassisted  by  the  wealth  or  strength 
of  Clreat  Britain  :  that  in  constituting  indeed  our  several  forms  of 
government,  we  had  adopted  a  common  king,  thereby  laying  a 
foundation  for  perpetual  league  and  amity  with  them :  but  that 
submission  to  their  parliament  was  no  part  of  our  constitution  nor 
ever  in  idea,  if  history  be  credited ;  and  we  have  appealed  to 
their  native  justice  and  magnanimity,  as  well  as  to  the  ties  of  our 
common  kindred,  to  disavow  these  usurpations  which  were  likely 


THOMAS  JEFFERSON 


83 


ns  of  (liHtant 
irrying  I  hem 
ible  tieath  in 
opprobrium 
ng  of  Great 
Men  should 
•  suppressing 
lis  execrable 
jht  want  no 
ry  people  to 
of  which  he 
ic'Ti  he  also 
itted  against 
ges  them  to 

oned  for  re- 
us have  been 
character  is 
is  unfit  to  be 
ire  ages  will 
tured  within 
mndation,  so 
fostered  and 

ish  brethren, 
ipts  by  their 
er  these  our 
s  of  our  emi- 
i  warrant  so 
;  expence  of 
h  or  strength 
jral  forms  of 
eby  laying  a 
n :  but  that 
istitution  nor 
appealed  to 
le  ties  of  our 
1  were  likely 


to  internipt  our  fonnection  and  correspondence.  They  too  have 
been  deaf  to  the  voice  of  justice  and  of  consanguinity,  ami  when 
occasions  have  been  given  them,  by  the  regular  course  of  their  laws 
of  removing  from  their  councils  the  disturbers  of  our  harmony, 
they  have  by  their  free  elections  re-established  them  in  power. 
At  this  very  time  they  are  permitting  their  chief  magistrate  to 
send  over  not  only  soldiers  of  our  own  blood,  but  Scotch  and 
other  foreign  mercenaries,  to  invade  and  destroy  us.  These  facts 
have  given  the  last  stab  to  agonizing  affections,  and  manly  spirit 
bids  to  renounce  forever  these  unfeeling  brethren.  We  must  en- 
deavor to  forget  our  former  love  for  them,  to  hold  them  as  we 
hold  the  rest  of  mankind  enemies  in  war,  in  peace  friends. 

We  might  have  been  a  free  and  a  great  people  together ;  but  a 
communication  of  grandeur  and  of  freedom  it  seems,  is  below 
their  dignity.  Be  it  so,  since  they  will  have  it :  the  road  to  happi- 
ness and  to  glory  is  open  to  us  too ;  we  will  climb  it  apart  from 
them,  and  acquiesce  in  the  necessity  which  denounces  our  eternal 
separation  I 

We  therefore  the  representatives  of  the  United  States  in  Gen- 
eral Congress  assembled  in  the  name  and  by  the  authority  of  the 
good  people  of  these  states,  reject  and  renounce  all  allegiance  and 
subjection  to  the  kings  of  Great  Britain  and  all  others  who  may 
hereafter  claim  by,  through,  or  under  them ;  we  utterly  dissolve 
all  political  connection  which  may  heretofore  have  subsisted  be- 
tween us  and  the  people  or  parliament  of  Great  Britain,  and 
finally  we  do  assert  and  declare  these  colonies  to  be  free  and 
independant,  and  that  as  free  and  independant  states,  they  have 
full  power  to  levy  war,  conclude  peace,  contract  alliances,  establish 
commerce,  and  to  do  all  other  acts  and  things  which  independent 
states  may  of  right  do.  And  for  the  support  of  this  declaration 
we  mutually  pledge  to  each  other  our  lives,  our  fortunes,  and  our 
sacred  honour. 

[Jefferson's  draft  of  the  Declaration  of  Independence  as  preserved  in  the 
Department  of  State.  It  is  here  reprinted  from  P.  L.  Ford's  Writings  of 
Thomas  Jefferson,  vol.  ii,  pp.  42-58,  liy  permission  of  the  publishers,  CI.  P. 
Putnam's  Sons.] 


i 


"«<■ 


intii  II  liifcfiiiiniS'ii^'iimiliiMlllimriHli^ 


iaumm 


CHARLES   BROCKDEN    BROWN 


[Charteii  Brockden  Brown  wa»  born  in  Philadelphia,  Jan.  17,  1771,  and 
died  in  the  tame  city,  of  coniumption,  Feb.  22,  1810.  By  hi»  own  itatement, 
made  in  a  letter  written  just  before  hi«  death,  we  learn  that  he  never  had 
more  than  one  continuoun  half-hour  of  perfect  hcaltii.  In  spite  of  hi*  short 
life  ami  his  ill-health  he  accuniplished  much.  At  first  he  studied  law,  but  al)an- 
doned  it  for  literature.  He  was  a  frequent  contrii)utor  to  the  magazines  of  the 
time  and  was  himself  the  e<litor  of  the  Afvii//ily  A/itgnzine  mui  .Imeiioiii  Ke- 
view  (1799), and  the  /.ittniry  Afngazine  and  Amrriain  A'fji,'isUr  (1803-8). 
His  first  published  work,  7Ae  Dialogue  of  AUiiin  (1797).  <l»^a"  with  (jucstions 
of  marriage  and  divorce,  and  he  was  also  the  author  of  several  essays  on  politi- 
cal, historical,  and  geographical  subjects.  His  novels  followed  each  other  with 
astonishing  rapidity  :  Sky  Walk;  or  the  Man  Unknown  to  Himself  {\T)i, 
not  published),  IVieland;  or  the  Transformation  (1798).  Ormond;  or  the 
Secret  Witness  (ijgg),  Arthur  Afervyn  ;  or  Memoirs  of  the  Year  ijgj  (1799- 
1800),  Edgar  l/untly ;  or  Memoirs  of  a  Sleep-Walker  (1801),  Jane  Talbot 
(1801),  and  Clara  Howard)  or  the  Enthusiasm  of  Love  (1801).  They  met 
with  an  equally  astonishing  success,  and  constitute  the  first  important  contri- 
bution to  American  fiction.  The  standard  text  of  Brown's  works,  based  on 
early  editions,  is  that  published  by  David  McKay,  and  from  this,  with  his  per- 
mission, the  extracts  are  reprinted,] 

When,  in  1834,  the  historian  Jared  Sparks  undertook  the  pub- 
lication of  a  Library  of  An rican  Biography,  \yt  inchided  in  the 
very  first  volume  —  with  a  literary,  instinct  most  creditable  to  one 
so  absorbed  in  the  severer  paths  of  history  —  a  memoir  of  Charles 
Brockden  Brown.  It  was  an  appropriate  tribute  to  the  first  imag- 
inative writer  worth  mentioning  in  America,  and  to  one  who  was 
our  first  professional  author.  He  was  also  the  first  to  exert  a  posi- 
tive influence,  across  the  Atlantic,  upon  British  literature,  laying 
thus  early  a  few  modest  strands  towards  an  ocean-cable  of  thought. 
As  a  result  of  this  influence  concealed  doors  opened  in  lonely 
houses,  fatal  epidemics  laid  cities  desolate,  secret  plots  were 
organized,  unknown  persons  from  foreign  lands  died  in  garrets 
leaving  large  sums  of  money;  the  honor  of  innocent  women 

84 


.-MMMNMi 


<*liP 


C//Ah'l.ES  BROCK  DEN  BROWN 


85 


WN 

17,  1771,  and 
own  iUtement, 
t  he  never  had 
te  of  his  short 
I  Iaw,  but  al)an- 
a(;a7.incs  of  the 

Aniericttn  Re- 
hitr  (1803-8). 

with  c|ucstion8 
;ssays  on  politic 
each  other  with 
llimitlf  {l^<i%, 
rmond;   or  tht 

<"■  /79J('799- 
),  Jant  Talbot 
)i).  They  met 
iportant  contrl- 
rorks,  based  on 
is,  with  his  per- 


)ok  the  pub- 
hided  in  the 
i  table  to  one 
)ir  of  Charles 
he  first  imag- 
ine who  was 
exert  a  posi- 
•ature,  laying 
le  of  thought, 
led  in  lonely 
t  plots  were 
:d  in  garrets 
icent  women 


was  constantly  endangered,  though  usually  savetl  in  time ;  peo- 
ple were  subject  to  somnambulism  and  general  frenzy  ;  vast  con- 
spiracies were  organized  with  small  aims  and  smaller  results.  His 
books,  published  between  1798  and  1801,  made  their  way  across 
the  ocean  with  a  promptness  that  now  seems  inexplicable ;  and 
Mrs.  Shelley  in  her  novel  of  The  Last  Man  founds  her  description 
of  an  epidemic  on  "  the  masterly  delineations  of  the  author  of 
Arthur  Mervyn." 

Shelley  himself  recognized  his  obligations  to  Hrown  ;  and  it  is  to 
be  remembered  that  Hrown  himself  was  evidently  familiar  with 
Clodwin's  philosophical  writings,  and  that  he  may  have  drawn 
from  those  of  Mary  Wollstonecraft  his  advanced  views  as  to  the 
rights  anil  education  of  wonien,  a  subject  on  which  his  first  book, 
Alcuin,  provided  the  earliest  American  protest.  Undoubtedly  his 
books  furnished  a  paint  of  transition  from  Mrs.  Kadcliffe,  of 
wlioin  he  disapproved,  to  the  modern  novel  of  realism,  although 
his  immediate  influence  and,  so  to  speak,  his  stage  properties,  can 
hardly  be  traced  later  than  the  remarkable  tale,  also  by  a  Philadel- 
phian,  called  Stanley;  or  the  Man  of  the  World,  first  published  in 
1839  in  London,  though  the  scene  was  laid  in  America.  This 
book  was  attributed,  from  its  profuse  literary  information,  to  Ed- 
ward ICverett,  but  was  soon  understood  to  be  the  work  of  a  very 
young  man  of  twenty-one,  Horace  Binney  Wallace.  In  thif  book 
the  influence  of  liulwer  and  Disr.ieli  is  palpable,  but  Brown's  con- 
cealed chambers  and  aimless  conspiracies  and  sudden  mysterious 
deaths  also  reappear  in  full  force,  not  without  some  lingering 
power,  and  then  vanish  from  American  literature  forever. 

Brown's  style,  and  especially  the  language  put  by  him  into  the 
mouths  of  his  characters,  is  perhaps  unduly  characterized  by  Pro- 
fessor Woodberry  as  being  "  something  never  heard  off"  the  stage 
of  melodrama."  What  this  able  critic  does  not  sufficiently  recog- 
nize is  that  the  general  st  le  of  the  period  at  which  they  were 
written  was  itself  melodran.  tic,  and  that  to  substitute  what  we 
should  call  simplicity  would  then  have  made  the  pictur?  unfaith- 
ful. One  has  only  to  read  over  the  private  letters  of  any  educated 
family  of  that  period  to  see  that  people  did  not  then  express  them- 
selves as  they  now  do ;  that  they  were  far  more  ornate  in  utter- 
ance, more  involved  in  statement,  more  impassioned  in  speech. 


I 

I 
I 


litiii  '■    iiiiilirriii'iiii-<ri  lirnliiiiiiriMJ.iiS*''' 


iSSe 


SHM 


86 


AMERICAN  PKOSE 


Even  a  comparatively  terse  writer  like   Prescott,  in  composing 
Brown's  biography  only  sixty  years  ago,  shows  traces  of  the  earlier 
period.     Instead  of  stacing  simply  that  his  hero  was  a  born  Quaker, 
he  says  of  him  :   "  He  was  descended  from  a  highly  lespectable 
family,  whose  parents  were  of  that  estimable  sect  who  came  over 
with  William  Penn,  to  seek  an  asylum  where  they  might  worship 
their  Creator  unmolested,  in  the  meek  and  humble  spirit  of  their 
o'vn  faith."     Prescott  justly  criticises  Brown  for  saying,  "  I  was 
fraught  with  the  apprehension  that  my  life  was  endangered  ;  "  or 
"  his  brain  seemed  to  swell  beyond  its  continent;  "  or  "  I  ilrew 
every  bolt  that  appended  to  it,"  or  "  on  recovering  from  deliquit'.m, 
you  found  it  where  it  had  been  dropped  ; "  or  for  resorting  to  the 
circumlocution  of  saying,  "  by  a  common  apparatus  that  lay  beside 
my  i'lead  I  could  produce  a  light,"  when  he  really  meant  that  he 
had  a  tinderbox.    The  criticism  is  fair  enough,  yet  Prescott  him- 
self presently  takes  us  half  way  back  to  the  florid  vocabulary  of 
that  period,  when,  instead  of  merely  saying  that  his  hero  was  fond 
of  reading,  he  tells  us  that "  from  his  earliest  childhood  Brown  gave 
evidence  of  studious  propensities,  being  frequently  noticed  by  his 
father  on  his  return  from  school  poring  over  some  heavy  tome."    if 
the  tome  in  question  was  Johnson's  dictionary,  as  it  may  have  been, 
it  would  explain  both  Brown's  phraseology  and  the  milder  ampli- 
fications of  his  biographer.     Nothing  is  more  difficult  to  tell,  in  the 
fictitious  'iferature  of  even  a  generation  or  two  ago,  where  a  faith- 
ful delineation  ends  and  where  caricature  begins.     The  four-story 
signatures  of  Micawber's  letters,  as  represented  by  Dickens,  go 
but  little  beyond  the  similar  courtesies  employed  in  a  gentle- 
woir>an's  letters  in  the  days  of  Anna  Seward.    All  we  can  say  is 
that  within  a  century,  for  some  cause  or  other,  English  speech  has 
grown  very  much  simpler,  and  human  happiness  has  increased  in 
proportion. 

In  the  preface  to  his  second  novel  {Edgar  Huntly)  Brown  an- 
nounces it  as  his  primary  purpose  to  be  American  in  theme,  "  to 
exhibit  a  series  of  advent'., res  growing  out  of  our  own  country," 
adding  "  That  the  <ield  of  investigation  opened  to  us  by  our  own 
country  should  ■  i;ier  essentially  from  those  which  exist  in  Europe 
may  be  readily  conceived."  He  protests  against  "  puerile  super- 
stition and  exploded  manners,  Gothic  castles  and  chimeras,"  "nd 


] 


CHARLES  BROCKDEl^  BROWN 


87 


composing 
f  the  earlier 
jrn  Quaker, 
lespectable 
)  came  over 
ght  worship 
irit  of  their 
ng,  "  I  was 
gered ; "  or 
or  "  I  drew 

I  deliquitun, 
trting  to  the 

I I  lay  beside 
:ant  that  he 
rescott  him- 
iccbulary  of 
TO  was  fond 

Brown  gave 
iticed  by  his 
r  tome."  If 
y  have  been, 
lilder  ampli- 
;o  tell,  in  the 
here  a  faith- 
le  four-story 
Dickens,  go 
in  a  gentle- 
c  can  say  is 
1  speech  has 
increased  in 

)  Brown  an- 
,  theme,  "  to 
irn  country," 
by  our  own 
st  in  Europe 
uerile  super- 
imeras,"  "nd 


adds :  "  The  incidents  of  Indian  hostility  and  the  perils  of  the 
western  wilderness  are  far  more  suitable."  All  tliis  is  admirable, . 
hut  unfortunately  the  inherited  thoughts  and  methods-  of  the  period 
hung  round  him  to  cioy  his  style,  even  after  his  aim  was  emanci 
pated.  It  is  to  be  emembered  that  almost  all  his  imaginative 
work  was  done  in  early  life,  before  the  age  of  thirty  and  before  his 
po'vers  became  mature.  Yet  with  all  his  drawbacks  he  had 
achieved  his  end,  and  had  laid  the  foundation  for  American 
fiction. 

With  all  his  inflation  of  style,  he  was  undoubtedly,  in  his  way,  a 
careful  observer.  The  proof  of  this  is  that  he  has  preserved  for  us 
many  minor  points  of  life  and  manners  which  make  the  Philadel- 
phia of  a  century  ago  -ow  more  familiar  to  us  than  is  any  other 
American  city  of  that  period.  He  gives  us  the  roving  Indian  ;  the 
newly  arrived  French  musician  with  violin  and  monkey ;  the  one- 
story  farm-houses,  wh.ere  boarders  are  entertained  at  a  dollar  a 
week  ;  the  gray  cougar  amid  caves  of  limestone.  We  learn  from 
him  "  the  dangers  and  toils  cf  a  midnight  journey  in  a  stage  coach 
in  America.  The  roads  are  knee  deep  in  mire,  winding  through 
crags  and  pits,  while  the  wheels  groan  and  totter  and  the  curtain 
and  roof  admit  the  wet  at  a  thousand  seams."  We  learn  the 
proper  costume  for  a  youth  of  good  fortune  and  family,  —  "nan- 
keen coat  striped  with  green,  a  white  silk  waistcoat  elegantly 
needle-wrought,  cassimere  pantaloons,  stockings  of  variegated  silk, 
and  shoes  that  in  their  softness  vie  with  satin."  VVhen  dressing 
himself,  this  fovored  youtii  ties  his  flowing  locks  with  a  black 
ribbon.  We  find  from  him  that  "stage  boats"  then  crossed 
tvvice  a  day  from  New  York  to  Staten  Island,  and  we  discover  also 
with  some  surprise  that  negroes  were  freely  admitted  to  ride  in 
stages  in  Pennsylvania,  although  they  were  liable,  half  a  century 
later,  to  be  ejected  from  street-cars.  We  learn  also  that  there 
were  negro  free  schools  in  Philadelphia.  All  this  was  before 
1801. 

It  has  been  common  to  say  that  Brown  had  no  literary  skill,  but 
it  would  be  tnier  to  say  that  he  had  no  sense  of  literary  construc- 
tion. So  far  as  skill  is  tested  by  the  power  to  pique  curiosity. 
Brown  had  it ;  his  chapters  almost  always  end  at  a  point  of  espe- 
cial interest,  and  the  next  chapter,  postponing  the  solution,  often 


niliilifeililiSlMiliMi 


mSS^ 


mmt 


88 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


rlivf-rts  the  interest  in  a  wholly  new  direction.  But  literary  struct- 
ure there  is  none :  the  plots  are  always  cumulative  and  even 
oppressive ;  narrative  is  enclosed  in  narrative  ;  new  characters  and 
ccmplications  come  and  go,  while  important  personages  disappear 
altogfther,  and  are  perhaps  fished  up  with  difficulty,  as  with  a 
hook  and  line,  on  the  very  last  page.  There  is  also  a  total  lack 
of  humor,  and  only  such  efforts  at  vivacity  as  this  :  "  Move  on,  my 
quill  1  wait  not  for  my  guidance.  Reanimated  with  thy  master's 
spirit,  all  airy  light.  A  heyday  rapture  !  A  mounting  impulse 
sways  him  ;  lifts  him  from  the  earth."  There  is  so  much  of  monot- 
ony in  the  general  method,  that  one  novel  seems  to  stand  for 
all;  and  the  same  modes  of  solution  reappear  so  often  —  som- 
nambulism, ventriloquism,  yellow  fever,  forged  letters,  concealed 
money,  secret  closets  —  that  it  not  only  gives  a  sense  of  puerility, 
but  makes  it  very  difficult  to  recall,  as  to  any  particular  passage, 
from  which  book  it  came. 

Thomas  WEhnrwoRTH  Higginson 


wmmmm 


mmm 


literary  struct- 
ive  and  even 
;hararters  and 
iges  disappear 
ilty,  as  with  a 
)0  a  total  lack 
'  Move  on,  my 
1  thy  master's 
nting  impulse 
uch  of  monot- 
i  to  stand  for 
often  —  som- 
ers,  concealed 
je  of  puerility, 
cular  passage, 

I   HiGGINSON 


,        "  K 


CHARLES  BROCK  DEN  BROWN 


ADVENTURE  WITH   A  GRAY  COUGAR 


89 


While  thus  occupied  with  these  reflections,  my  eyes  were  fixed 
upon  the  opposite  steeps.  The  tops  of  the  trees,  waving  to  and 
fro  in  the  wildest  com.motion,  and  their  trunks,  occasionally  bend- 
ing to  the  blast,  which,  in  these  lofty  regions,  blew  with  a  violence 
unknown  in  the  trkcts  below,  exhibited  an  awful  spectacle.  At 
length,  my  attention  was  attracted  by  the  trunk  which  lay  across 
the  gulf,  and  which  I  had  converted  into  a  bridge.  I  perceived 
that  it  had  already  somewhat  swerved  from  its  original  position, 
that  every  blast  broke  or  loosene3  soriie  of  the  fibres  by  which  its 
roots  were  connected  with  the  opposite  bank,  and  that,  if  the 
storm  did  not  speedily  abate,  there  was  imminent  danger  of  its 
being  torn  from  the  rock  and  precipitated  into  the  chasm.  Thus 
my  retreat  would  be  cut  off,  and  the  evils  from  which  I  was  en- 
deavouring to  rescue  another  would  be  experienced  by  myself. 

I  did  not  just  then  reflect  that  Clithero  had  found  access  to  this 
hill  by  other  means,  and  that  the  avenue  by  which  he  came  would 
be  .equally  commodious  to  me.  I  believed  my  destiny  to  hang 
upon  the  expedition  with  which  I  should  recross  this  gulf.  The 
moments  that  were  spent  in  these  deliberations  were  critical,  and 
I  shuddered  to  observe  that  the  trunk  was  held  in  its  place  by  one 
or  two  fibres  which  were  already  stretched  almost  to  breaking. 

To  pass  along  the  trunk,  rendered  slippery  by  the  wet  and  un- 
stcadftist  by  the  wind,  was  imminently  dangerous.  To  maintain 
my  hold,  in  passing,  in  defiance  of  the  whirlwind,  required  the 
most  vigorous  exertions.  For  this  end  it  was  necessary  to  dis- 
commode myself  of  my  cloak,  and  of  the  volume  which  I  carried 
in  the  pocket  of  my  cloak.  I  believed  there  was  no  reason  to 
dread  their  being  destroyed  or  purloined,  if  left,  for  a  few  hours 
or  a  day,  in  this  recess.  If  left  beside  a  stone,  under  shelter  of 
this  cliff,  they  would,  no  doubt,  reinain  unmolested  till  the  disap- 
]iearance  of  the  storm  should  permit  me  to  revisit  this  spot  in  the 
afternoon  or  on  the  morrow. 

Just  as  I  had  disposed  of  these  encumbrances  and  had  risen 
from  my  seat,  ray  attention  was  again  called  to  the  opposite  steep, 
by  the  most  unwelcome  object  that,  at  this  time,  could  possibly 


wliwi^ii  ■>*iii»iiiriMa"MiiKirM<^#^ 


-m 


-,^£5. 


90 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


occur.  Something  was  perceived  moving  among  the  bushes  and 
rocks,  which,  for  a  time,  I  hoped  was  no  more  than  a  raccoon  or 
opossum,  but  which  presently  appeared  to  be  a  panther.  His 
gray  coat,  extended  claws,  fiery  eyes,  and  a  cry  which  he  at  that 
moment  uttered,  and  which,  by  its  resemblance  to  the  human 
voice,  is  peculiarly  terrific,  denoted  him  to  be  the  most  ferocious 
and  untamable  of  that  detested  race.' 

The  industry  of  our  hunters  has  nearly  banished  animals  of  prey 
from  these  precincts.  The  fastnesses  of  Norwalk,  however,  could 
not  but  afford  refuge  to  some  of  them.  Of  late  I  had  met  them 
so  rarely,  that  my  fears  were  seldom  alive,  and  I  trod,  without 
caution,  the  ruggedest  and  most  solitary  haunts.  Still,  however, 
I  had  seldom  been  unfurnished  in  my  rambles  with  the  means  of 
defence. 

My  temper  never  delighted  in  carnage  and  blood.  I  found  no 
pleasure  in  plunging  into  bogs,  wading  through  rivulets,  and 
penetrating  thickets,  for  the  sake  of  dispatching  woodcocks  and 
squirrels.  To  watch  their  gambols  and  flittings,  and  invite  them 
to  my  hand,  was  my  darling  amusement  when  loitering  among  the 
woods  and  the  rocks.  It  was  much  otherwise,  however,  with  re- 
gard to  rattlesnakes  and  panthers.  Those  I  thought  it  no  breach 
of  duty  to  exterminate  wherever  they  could  be  found.  These 
judicious  and  sanguinary  spoilers  were  equally  the  enemies  of  man 
and  of  the  harmless  race  that  sported  in  the  trees,  and  many  of 
their  skins  are  still  preserved  by  me  as  trophies  of  my  juvenile 
prowess. 

As  hunting  was  never  my  trade  or  sport,  I  never  loaded  myself 
with  fowling-piece  or  rifle.  Assiduous  exercise  had  made  me  mas- 
ter of  a  weapon  of  much  easier  carriage,  and,  within  a  moderate 
distance,  more  destructive  and  unerring.  This  was  the  tomahawk. 
With  this  I  have  often  severed  an  oak-branch,  and  cut  the  sinews 
of  a  catamount,  at  the  distance  of  sixty  feet. 

The  unfrequency  with  which  I  had  lately  encountered  this  foe, 
and  the  encumbrance  of  provision,  made  me  neglect,  on  this  oc- 
casion, to  bring  with  me  my  usual  arms.     The  beast  that  was  now 

1  The  gray  cougar.  This  animal  has  all  the  essential  characteristics  of  a  tiger. 
Though  somewhat  inferior  in  size  and  strength,  these  are  such  as  to  make  him 
equally  formidable  to  man.  — /^«Mo/-'j  A'i)/<f. 


L^^ 


CHARLES  BROCK  DEN  BROWN 


91 


e  bushes  and 

a  raccoon  or 

lanthrr.     His 

:h  he  at  that 

0  the  human 
nost  ferocious 

limals  of  prey 
owever,  could 
ad  met  them 
trod,  without 
)till,  however, 
the  means  of 

I  found  no 
rivulets,  and 
)odcocks  and 

1  invite  them 
ig  among  the 
;ver,  with  re- 
it  no  breach 
)und.  These 
emies  of  man 
and  many  of 
f  my  juvenile 

jaded  myself 
ude  me  mas- 
n  a  moderate 
le  tomahawk, 
ut  the  sinews 

;red  this  foe, 
,  on  this  00- 
hat  was  now 

ristics  of  a  tiger. 
Js  to  make  him 


before  me,  when  stimulated  by  hunger,  was  accustomed  to  assail 
whatever  could  provide  him  with  a  banquet  of  blooii.  He  would 
set  upon  the  man  and  the  deer  with  equal  and  irresistible  ferocity. 
His  sagacity  was  equal  to  his  strength,  and  he  seemed  able  to  dis- 
cover when  his  antagonist  was  armed  and  prepared  for  defence. 

My  past  experienf  e  enabled  me  to  estimate  the  full  extent  of 
my  danger.  He  sat  on  the  brow  of  the  steep,  eyeing  the  bridge, 
and  apparently  deliberating  whether  he  should  cross  it.  It  was 
prol)able  that  he  had  scented  my  footsteps  thus  far,  and,  should  he 
pass  over,  his  vigilance  could  scarcely  fail  of  detecting  my  asylum. 
The  pit  into  which  Clithero  had  sunk  from  my  view  was  at  some 
distance.  To  reach  it  was  the  first  impulse  of  my  fear,  but  this 
could  not  be  done  without  exciting  the  observation  and  pursuit  of 
this  enemy.  I  deeply  regretted  the  untoward  chance  that  had 
led  nie,  when  I  first  came  over,  to  a  different  shelter.  * 

Should  he  retain  his  present  station,  my  danger  was  scarcely 
lessened.  To  pass  over  in  the  face  of  a  famished  tiger  was  only 
to  rush  upon  my  fate.  The  falling  of  the  trunk,  which  had  lately 
been  so  anxiously  deprecated,  was  now,  with  no  less  solicitude, 
desired.  Every  new  gust,  I  hoped,  would  tear  asunder  its  re- 
maining bands,  and  by  cutting  off  all  communication  between  the 
opposite  steeps,  place  me  in  security. 

My  hopes,  however,  were  destined  to  be  frustrated.  The  fibres 
of  the  prostrate  tree  were  obstinately  tenacious  of  their  hold,  and 
presently  the  animal  scrambled  down  the  rock  and  p-  oceeded  to 
cross  it. 

Of  all  kinds  of  death,  that  which  now  menaced  me  was  the 
most  abhorred.  To  die  of  disease,  or  by  the  hand  of  a  fellow- 
creature,  was  propitious  and  lenient  in  comparison  with  being  rent 
to  pieces  by  the  fangs  of  this  savage.  To  perish  in  this  obscure 
retreat,  by  means  so  impervious  to  the  anxious  curiosity  of  my 
friends,  to  lose  my  portion  of  existence  by  so  untoward  and  ig- 
noble a  destiny,  was  insupportable.  I  bitterly  deplored  my  rash- 
ness in  coming  hither  unprovided  for  an  encounter  like  this. 

The  evil  of  my  present  circumstances  consisted  chiefly  in  sus- 
pense. My  death  was  unavoidable,  but  my  imagination  had 
leisure  to  torment  itself  by  anticipations.  One  foot  of  the  savage 
was  slowly  and  cautiously  moved  after  the  other.     He  struck  his 


1 
J, 


«iiiin 


i^ 


92 


AMEHICAN  PA'OSE 


It 


claws  so  deeply  into  the  bark  that  they  were  with  difficulty  with- 
drawn. At  length  he  leaped  upon  the  ground.  We  were  now 
separated  by  an  interval  of  scarcely  eight  feel.  To  leave  tiie  spot 
where  I  crouched  was  impossible.  Behind  and  beside  me,  the 
cliJrose  perpendicularly,  and  before  me  was  this  grim  aiid  terrific 
visage.     I  shrimk  still  closer  to  the  ground  and  closed  my  eyes. 

From  this  pause  of  horror  I  was  aroused  by  the  noise  occasioned 
by  a  second  spring  of  the  animal.  He  leaped  into  the  pit,  in 
which  I  had  so  deeply  regretted  that  I  had  not  taken  refuge,  and 
disappeared.  My  rescue  was  so  sudden,  and  so  much  beyond  my 
belief  or  my  hope,  that  I  doubted,  for  a  moment,  whether  my 
senses  did  not  deceive  me.  This  opportunity  of  escape  was  not 
to  be  neglected.  I  left  my  place,  and  scrambled  over  the  trunk 
with  a  precipitation  which  had  liked  to  have  proved  fiital.  'J"he 
tree  groaned  and  shook  under  me,  the  wind  blew  with  unexampled 
violence,  and  I  had  scarcely  reached  the  opposite  steep  when  the 
roots  were  severed  from  the  rock,  and  the  whole  fell  thundering 
to  the  bottom  of  the  chasm. 

My  trepidations  were  not  speedily  quieted.  I  looked  back  with 
wonder  on  my  hairbreadth  escape,  and  on  that  singular  concur- 
rence of  events  which  had  placed  me,  in  so  short  a  period,  in  abso- 
lute security.  Had  the  trunk  fallen  a  moment  earlier,  I  should 
have  been  imprisoned  on  the  hill  or  thrown  headlong.  Had  its 
fall  been  delayed  another  moment,  I  should  have  been  pursued ; 
for  the  beast  now  issued  from  his  den,  and  testified  his  surprise 
and  disappointment  by  tokens  the  sight  of  which  made  my  blood 
run  cold. 

He  saw  me,  and  hastened  to  the  verge  of  the  chasm.  He 
squatted  on  his  hind-legs  and  assumed  the  attitude  of  one  prepar- 
ing to  leap.  My  consternation  was  excited  afresh  by  these  appear- 
ances. It  seemed  at  first  as  if  the  rift  was  too  wide  for  any  power 
of  muscles  to  carry  him  in  safety  over  ;  but  I  knew  the  unparalleled 
agility  of  this  animal,  and  that  his  experience  had  made  him  a 
better  judge  of  the  practicability  of  this  exploit  than  I  was.  Still 
there  was  hope  that  he  vould  relinquish  this  design  as  desperate. 
This  hope  was  quickly  at  an  end.  He  spr  mg,  and  his  fore-legs 
touched  the  verge  of  the  rock  on  which  I  stood.  In  spite  of 
vehement  exertions,  however,  the  surface  was  too  smooth  and  too 


nnnMi 


C7/.iA'LES  BROCK  DEN  liA'Oii.V 


93 


lifficulty  with- 
VVe  were  now 
leave  t'.ie  spot 
eside  me,  the 
im  aiid  terrific 
sd  my  eyes, 
ise  occasioned 
to  the  pit,  in 
n  refuge,  and 
ch  beyond  my 
,  whether  my 
icape  was  not 
ver  the  trunk 
■d  fatal.  'l"he 
h  unexampled 
ecp  when  the 
;11  thundering 

ked  back  with 
gular  concur- 
eriod,  in  abso- 
lier,  I  should 
)ng.  Had  its 
een  pursued ; 
\  his  surprise 
ade  my  blood 

chasm.  He 
f  one  prepar- 
these  appear- 
for  any  power 
e  unparalleled 

made  him  a 
\  I  was.  Still 
as  desperate. 

his  fore-legs 

In  spite  of 
looth  and  too 


hard  to  allow  him  to  make  good  his  hold.  He  fell,  and  a 
piercing  cry,  uttered  below,  showed  that  nothing  had  obstructed  his 
descent  to  the  bottom. 

[From  Edgar  Iluntly  ;  or  the  Afemoirs  of  a  3leep-  Walker,  1801,  chapter  la. 
The  text  of  this  extract  and  those  that  follow  is,  with  the  permission  of  the 
piiUiisher,  that  of  the  edition  issued  in  1887,  by  David  McKay,  Philadelphia. 
II  is  based  on  that  of  the  original  editions.] 


SCENE  AMONG   INDIANS 

Before  a  resolution  could  be  formed,  a  new  sound  saluted  my 
ear.  It  was  a  deep  groan,  succeeded  by  sobs  that  seemed  strug- 
fj;i;ng  for  utterance  but  were  vehemently  counteracted  by  the  suf- 
ferer. This  low  and  bitter  lamentation  apparently  pre  needed 
from  some  one  within  the  cave.  It  could  not  be  from  one  of 
tiiis  swarthy  band.  It  must,  then,  proceed  from  a  captive, 
whom  they  had  reserved  for  torment  or  servitude,  and  who  had 
seized  the  opportunity  afforded  by  the  absence  of  him  that 
watched  to  give  vent  to  his  despair. 

1  again  thrust  my  head  forward,  and  beheld,  lying  on  ihe 
ground,  apart  from  the  rest,  and  bound  hand  and  foot,  a  young 
girl.  Her  dress  was  the  coaise  russet  garb  of  the  country,  and 
l)espoke  her  to  be  some  farmer's  daughter.  Her  features  denoted 
the  last  degree  of  fear  and  anguish,  and  she  moved  her  limbs  in 
such  a  manner  as  showed  that  the  ligatures  by  which  she  was  con- 
fined produced,  by  their  tightness,  the  utmost  degree  of  pain. 

My  wishes  were  now  bent  not  only  to  preserve  myself  and  to 
frustrate  the  future  attempts  of  these  savages,  but  likewise  to  re- 
lievo this  miserable  victim.  This  couk'  only  be  done  by  escaping 
from  the  cavern  and  returning  with  seasonable  aid.  The  sobs  of 
the  girl  were  likely  to  rouse  the  sleepers.  My  appearance  before 
her  would  prompt  her  to  testify  her  surprise  by  some  exclamation 
or  shriek.  What  could  hence  be  predicted  but  that  the  band 
would  start  on  their  feet  and  level  their  unerring  pieces  at  my 
head  ? 

I  know  not  why  I  was  insensible  to  these  dangers.  My  thirst 
was  rendered  by  these  delays  intolerable.  It  took  from  me,  in 
some  degree,  the  power  of  deliberation.     The   murmurs   which 


:.a 


^^i 


!.; 


94 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


had  drawn  ine  hitlier  continued  still  to  be  heard.  Some  torrent 
or  cascade  coiiKl  not  be  far  distant  from  i!:*;  entrance  of  the 
cavern,  and  it  seemed  as  if  one  draught  of  cold  water  was  a 
luxury  cheaply  purchased  by  death  itself.  I'his,  in  addition  to 
considerations  more  disinterested,  and  which  I  have  already 
mentioned,  impelled  me  forward. 

'i"he  girl's  cheek  rested  on  the  hard  rock,  and  her  eyes  were 
dim  with  tears.  As  they  were  turned  towards  me,  however,  I 
hoped  that  my  movements  would  be  noticed  by  her  gradually  and 
without  abruptness.  This  expectation  was  tulfilled.  1  had  not 
advanced  many  steps  before  she  discovered  me.  This  moment 
was  critical  beyond  all  others  in  the  course  of  my  existence. 
My  life  was  suspended,  as  it  were,  by  a  spider's  thread.  All 
rested  on  the  effect  which  this  discovery  should  make  upon  this 
feeble  victim. 

I  was  watchful  of  the  first  movement  of  her  eye  which  should 
indicate  a  consciousness  of  my  presence.  I  labored,  by  gestures 
and  looks,  to  deter  her  from  betraying  her  emotion.  My  attention 
was,  at  the  same  time,  fixed  upon  the  sleepers,  and  an  anxious 
glance  was  cast  towards  the  <iuarter  whence  the  watchful  savage 
might  appear. 

I  stooped  and  seized  the  musket  and  hatchet.  The  space 
beyond  the  fire  was,  as  I  expected,  open  to  the  air.  I  issued  forth 
with  tren.jling  steps.  The  sensations  inspired  by  the  dangers  which 
environed  me,  added  to  my  recent  horrors,  and  the  influence  of 
the  moon,  which  had  now  gained  the  zenith,  and  whose  lustre 
dazzled  my  long-benighted  senses,  cannot  be  adequately  described. 

For  a  minute,  I  was  unable  to  distingtiish  objects.  This  confu- 
sion was  speedily  corrected,  and  I  found  myself  on  the  verge  of 
a  steep.  Craggy  eminences  arose  on  all  sides.  On  the  left 
hand  was  a  space  that  offered  some  footing,  and  hither  I  turned. 
A  torrent  was  below  me,  and  this  path  appeared  to  lead  to  it.  It 
quickly  appeared  in  sight,  and  all  foreign  cares  were,  for  a  time, 
suspended. 

This  water  fell  from  the  upper  regions  of  the  hill,  upon  a  flat 
projecture  which  was  continued  on  either  side,  and  on  part  of 
which  I  was  now  standing.  The  path  was  bounded  on  the  left  by 
an  inaccessible  wall,  and  on  the  right  terminated,  at  the  distance 


iS*' 


jonie  torrent 
ranee  of  tlie 
water  was  a 
luldition  to 
lave    already 

cr  eyes  were 
,  liowevcr,  I 
[radiially  and 
I  had  not 
Phis  moment 
ly  existence, 
thread.  All 
ce  upon  this 

vhich  should 
,  by  gestures 
My  attention 
an  anxious 
cliful  savage 

The  space 
'.  issued  forth 
angers  which 
influence  of 
(vhose  lustre 
ly  described. 

This  confu- 
the  verge  of 
On  the  left 
er  I  turned, 
id  to  it.  It 
,  for  a  time, 

upon  a  flat 

on  part  of 

n  the  left  by 

the  distance 


C//.-IA-/./:S   nHOCKDKN  liROWN 


9f 


of  two  or  three  feet  from  the  wall,  in  a  |)recipicc.  The  water  was 
eight  or  ten  paces, distant,  and  no  impediment  seemed  likely  to 
rise  between  us.  I  rushed  forward  with  speed.  My  progress  was 
quickly  checked.  Close  to  the  falling  water,  seated  on  the  edge, 
his  back  supported  by  the  rock,  and  his  legs  hanging  over  the  i)reci- 
pice,  I  now  beheld  tiie  savage  who  left  the  cave  before  me.  The 
noise  of  the  cascade  and  the  im])roI)ability  of  interruption,  at  least 
from  this  quarter,  had  matle  him  inattentive  to  my  motions. 

I  paused.  Along  this  verge  lay  the  only  ro;nI  by  which  I  could 
reach  the  water,  and  by  which  I  could  escape.  The  passage  was 
completely  ccupied  by  this  antagonist.  To  advance  towards  him, 
or  to  remain  where  I  was,  would  produce  the  same  effect.  I  should, 
in  either  case,  be  detected.  He  was  unarmed ;  but  his  outcries 
would  instantly  summon  his  companions  to  his  aid.  I  could  not 
hope  to  overpower  him,  and  jjass  him  in  defiance  of  his  opposition. 
But,  if  this  were  effected,  pursuit  would  be  instantly  commenced. 
I  wa3  unacquainted  with  the  way.  The  way  was  uncpiestionably 
difficult.  My  strength  was  nearly  annihilated  ;  I  should  be  over- 
taken in  a  moment,  or  their  deficiency  in  speed  would  be  supplied 
by  the  accuracy  of  their  aim.  Their  bullets,  at  least,  would  reach 
me. 

Tiiere  was  one  method  of  removing  this  impediment.  The 
piece  which  I  held  in  my  hand  was  cocked.  There  could  be  no 
doubt  that  it  was  loaded.  A  precaution  of  this  kind  would  never 
be  omitted  by  a  warrior  of  this  hue.  At  a  greater  distance  than 
this,  I  should  not  fear  to  reach  the  mark.  Should  I  not  discharge 
it,  and  at  the  same  moment,  rush  forward  to  secure  the  road  which 
ray  adversary's  death  would  open  to  me  ? 

Perhaps  you  will  conceive  a  purpose  like  this  to  have  argued  a 
sanguinary  and  murderous  disposition.  Let  it  be  remembered, 
however,  that  I  entertained  no  doubts  about  the  hostile  designs  of 
these  men.  This  was  sufficiently  indicated  by  their  arms,  their 
guise,  and  the  captive  who  attended  them.  Let  the  fate  of  my 
parents  be,  likewise,  remembered.  I  was  not  certain  but  that  these 
very  men  were  the  assassins  of  my  family,  and  were  those  who  had 
reduced  me  and  my  sisters  to  the  condition  of  orphans  and  depend- 
ants. No  words  can  describe  the  torments  of  my  thirst.  Relief 
to  these  torments,  and  safety  to  my  life,  were  within  view.     How 


1 


•x\ 


sas*' 


96 


AAn:h'/C.h\  J'HUSF. 


coulfl  I  lu'sitiite?  Yot  I  (lid  iRsilate.  My  aversion  to  liloodshed 
was  not  to  be  subdued  but  by  tlio  direst  necessity.  I  knew,  indeed, 
that  the  discharge  of  a  musket  would  only  alarm  the  enemies  who 
remained  behind  ;  but  I  had  another  and  a  better  weapciii  in  my 
grasp,  i  could  rive  the  head  of  my  adversary,  and  cast  him  head- 
long, without  any  noise  which  should  be  hearil,  into  the  cavern. 

Still  I  was  willing  to  withdraw,  to  re-enter  the  cave,  and  take 
shelter  in  the  darksome  recesses  from  which  I  had  emerged. 
Here  I  might  remain,  unsuspected,  till  these  detested  guests 
should  depart.  The  hazards  attending  my  re-entrance  were  to 
be  boldly  encountered,  and  the  torments  of  unsatisfied  thirst  were 
to  be  patiently  endured,  rather  than  imbrue  my  hands  in  the 
blood  of  my  fellowmen.  IJut  this  expedient  would  be  ineffectual 
if  my  retreat  should  Ik;  observed  by  this  savage.  Of  that  I  was 
bound  to  be  inconteslably  assured.  I  retreated,  therefore,  but 
kept  my  eye  fixed  at  the  same  time  upon  the  enemy. 

Some  ill  fate  decreed  that  I  should  not  retreat  unobserved. 
Scarcely  had  I  withdrawn  three  paces  when  he  started  from  his 
seat,  and,  turning  towards  me,  walked  with  a  quick  pace.  The 
shadow  of  the  rock,  and  the  imjirobability  of  meeting  an  enemy 
here,  concealed  me  for  a  moment  from  his  observation.  I  stood 
still.  The  slightest  motion  would  have  attracted  his  notice.  At 
present,  the  narrow  space  engaged  all  his  vigilance.  Cautious  foot- 
steps, and  attention  to  the  path,  were  indispensable  to  his  safety. 
The  respite  was  momentary,  and  I  employed  it  in  my  own  defence. 

How  otherwise  could  I  act?  The  danger  that  impended  aimed 
at  nothing  less  than  my  life.  To  take  the  life  of  another  was  the 
only  method  of  averting  it.  The  means  were  in  my  hand,  and 
they  were  used.  In  an  extremity  like  this,  my  muscles  would 
have  acted  almost  in  defiance  of  my  will. 

The  stroke  was  quick  as  lightning,  and  the  vound  mortal  and 
deep.  He  had  not  time  to  descry  the  author  of  his  fate,  but, 
sinking  on  the  path,  expired  without  a  groan.  The  hatchet 
buried  itself  in  his  brt-ast,  and  rolled  with  him  to  the  bottom  of 
the  precipice. 

Never  before  had  I  taken  the  life  of  a  human  creature.  On 
this  head  I  had,  indeed,  entertained  somewhat  of  religious 
scruples.    These  scruples  did  not  forbid  me  to  defend  myse'f,  but 


r 


Ctf.iNl.r.S  /iA'OCA'/)/:X  hkown 


97 


ihey  made  me  taiitions  and  reluctant  to  decide.  Though  they 
could  not  withhold  my  hand  when  urged  hy  a  necessity  like  this, 
they  were  sufticient  to  make  me  look  back  upon  the  deed  with 
remorse  and  dismay. 

I  did  not  escai)e  all  compunctit)n  in  the  present  instance,  but 
the  tumult  of  my  feelings  was  (piickly  allayed.  To  (piench  my 
thirst  was  a  consideration  by  which  all  otiicrs  were  supplanted. 
I  approached  the'  torrent,  and  not  only  drank  copiously,  but 
laved  my  heati,  neck,  and  arms,  in  this  delicious  element. 

\_Eilgrtr  llimlly,  1801,  chapter  16.] 


A 


PHILADELPHIA   DURING   THIi   YELLOW   FEVER 

These  ineditations  did  not  enfeeble  my  resolution,  or  slacken 
my  pace.  In  proportion  as  I  drew  near  the  city,  the  tokens  ot  its 
calamitous  condition  became  more  api)arent.  Every  farm-house 
was  filled  with  supernumerary  tenants,  fugitives  from  home,  and 
haunting  the  skirts  of  the  road,  eager  to  detain  every  passenger 
with  inquiries  after  news.  The  passengers  were  numerous ;  for 
the  tide  of  emigration  was  by  no  means  exhausted,  iome  were 
on  foot,  bearing  in  their  countenances  the  tokens  of  their  re- 
cent terror,  and  filled  with  mournful  reflections  on  the  forlornness 
of  their  state.  Few  had  secured  to  themselves  an  asylum  ;  some 
were  without  the  means  of  paying  for  victuals  or  lodgings  ""or  the 
coming  night ;  others,  who  were  not  thus  destitute,  yet  knew  not 
whither  to  apply  for  entertainment,  every  house  being  already 
overstocked  with  inhabitants,  or  barring  its  inhospitable  doors  at 
their  approach. 

Families  of  weeping  mothers  and  dismayed  children,  attended 
with  a  few  pieces  of  indispensable  furniture,  were  carried  in  vehicles 
of  every  form.  The  parent  or  husband  had  perished  ;  and  the 
price  of  some  movable,  or  the  pittance  handed  forth  by  public 
charity,  had  b'^en  expended  to  purchase  the  ttieans  of  retiring 
from  this  theatre  of  disasters,  though  un:ertain  and  hopeless  of 
accommodation  in  the  neighbouring  districts. 

Between  these  and  the  fugitives  whom  curiosity  had  led  to  the 
road,  dialogues  frequently  took  place,  to  which  I  was  suffered  to 

H 


mmmtmtm 


98 


AMEHICAX  PKOSH 


listen.  From  every  mouth  the  talc  of  sorrow  was  repcntnl  with 
new  agnravations.  I'ictiircs  of  their  own  distress,  or  of  that  of  their 
neij{iilK)urs,  were  exhibited  in  all  the  hues  which  imagination  can 
annex  to  pestilence  and  poverty. 

My  |)reconceptions  of  the  evil  now  a|)peared  to  have  fallen  short 
of  the  truth.  'I'he  dangers  into  which  I  was  rushing  seemed  more 
numerous  and  imminent  than  I  had  previously  imagined.  I  wa- 
vered not  in  my  purpose.  A  i)anic:  « rept  to  my  heart,  which  more 
vehement  exertions  were  necessary  to  suhdue  or  control ;  but  I 
harboured  not  a  momentary  doubt  that  the  course  which  I  had 
taken  was  jrescribed  by  duly.  There  was  no  difficulty  or  rehict- 
ance  in  proceeding.  .All  for  which  my  efforts  were  demanded  was 
to  walk  in  this  path  without  tumult  or  alarm. 

Various  circumstances  had  hindered  me  from  setting  out  upon 
this  journey  as  early  as  w.is  proper.  My  freipient  pauses  tt)  listen 
to  the  narratives  of  travellers  contributed  likewise  to  procrastina- 
tion. The  sun  !iad  nearly  set  before  1  reached  the  i)recincts  of 
the  city.  I  pursued  the  track  which  I  had  formerly  taken,  and 
entered  High  Street  after  nightfall. 

Instead  of  equipages  and  a  throng  of  passengers,  the  voice  of 
levity  and  glee,  which  I  had  formerly  observed,  and  which  the 
mildness  of  the  season  would,  at  other  times,  have  produced,  I 
found  nothing  hut  a  dreary  solitude. 

The  market-place,  and  each  side  of  this  magnificent  avenue, 
were  illuminated,  as  before,  by  lamps ;  but  between  the  verge  of 
Schuylkill  and  the  heart  of  the  city  I  met  not  more  than  a  dozen 
figures  ;  and  these  were  ghostlike,  wrapped  in  cloaks,  from  behind 
which  they  cast  upon  me  {^lances  of  wonder  and  suspicion,  and  as 
I  approached,  changed  their  course,  to  avoid  touching  me.  Their 
clothes  were  sprinkled  with  vinegar,  and  their  nostrils  defended 
from  contagion  by  some  powerful  perfume. 

I  cast  a  look  upon  the  houses,  which  I  recollected  to  have 
formerly  been,  at  this  hour,  brilliant  with  lights,  resounding  with 
lively  voices,  and  thronged  with  busy  faces.  Now  they  were  closed, 
above  and  below ;  dark,  and  without  tokens  of  being  inhabited. 
From  the  upper  windows  of  some,  a  gleam  sometimes  fell  upon 
the  pavement  I  was  traversing,  and  showed  that  their  tenants  had 
not  fled,  but  were  secluded  or  disabled. 


^^mm 


i^Upi  fl^f  IW 


■■•P*«F 


nip  -II  impypfwrnw " ' n-vf  i  '■■i'ij ■,»,■. >i  'iwy 


■atcil  with 
at  of  their 
latiun  can 

illen  short 
inecl  nv)rc 
1(1.  I  wa- 
hich  more 
■ol ;  hut  I 
ich  I  had 
or  rehict- 
anded  was 

;  out  upon 
,*s  to  hsten 
rocrastina- 
rccincts  of 
taken,  and 

le  voice  of 
which  the 
reduced,  I 

It  avenue, 
le  verge  of 
in  a  dozen 
am  behind 
on,  and  as 
Their 
defended 


le 


to  have 

iding  with 

ere  closed, 

inhabited. 

fell  upon 

nants  had 


CltAKr.ES  Hh'OCKPRN  BROWN 


99 


\ 


These  tokens  were  new,  ami  awaki-ni'd  all  uiy  panic  s.  Death 
MCeined  to  hover  over  this  si  one,  and  I  dre.uk'd  that  thi'  floating 
pestilence  had  already  lighted  on  my  frame.  I  had  scare  ely  over- 
come these  tremors,  wijen  I  ai)proaclied  a  house  the  door  of  which 
was  o|)ened,  and  before  which  stood  a  vehicle,  wliii  h  I  presently 
recognized  to  be  a  heaisc. 

The  driver  was  seated  on  it.  1  stood  still  to  mark  his  visage, 
and  to  observe  the  course  which  he  proposed  to  take.  Presently 
a  cuftin,  borne  by  two  men,  issued  from  the  house.  Tiie  driver 
'...-  "  negro  ;  but  his  companions  were  white.  Their  features  were 
marked  by  ferocious  indifference  to  danger  or  pity.  One  of  them, 
as  he  assisted  in  thrusting  tlie  coffin  into  the  cavity  provided  for  it, 
said,  "  I'll  be  damned  if  I  think  the  poor  dog  was  cpiite  dead.  It 
wasn't  \\\c/ever  that  ailed  him,  but  the  sight  of  the  girl  and  her 
mother  on  the  floor.  I  wonder  how  they  all  got  into  that  room. 
What  carried  them  there?"  The  other  surlily  muttered,  "Their 
legs,  to-be-sure."  "  Hut  what  should  they  hug  together  in  one 
room  for?" 

"To  save  us  trouble,  to-be-sure." 

"  And  I  thank  them  with  all  my  heart ;  but,  damn  it,  it  wasn't 
right  to  put  him  in  his  coffin  before  the  breath  was  fairly  gone.  I 
thought  the  last  look  he  gave  me  told  me  to  stay  a  few  minutes." 

"  Pshaw  !  He  could  not  live.  The  sooner  dead  the  better  for 
him  ;  as  well  as  for  us.  Did  you  mark  hov/  he  eyed  us  when  we 
carried  away  his  wife  and  daughter?  I  never  cried  in  my  life, 
since  I  was  knee-high,  but  curse  me  if  I  ever  felt  in  better  time  for 
the  business  than  just  then.  Hey  ! "  continued  he,  looking  up, 
and  observing  me  standing  a  few  paces  distant,  and  listening  to 
their  discourse  ;  "  what's  wanted?     Anybody  dead?" 

I  stayed  not  to  answer  or  parley,  but  hurried  forward.  My 
joints  trembled,  and  cold  drops  stood  on  my  forehead.  I  was 
ashamed  of  my  own  infirmity;  and,  by  vigorous  efforts  of  my 
reason,  regained  some  degree  of  composure.  The  evening  had 
now  advanced,  and  it  behooved  me  to  procure  accommodation  at 
some  of  the  inns. 

These  were  easily  distinguished  by  their  .f4'"''>  hat  many  were 
without  inhabitants.  At  length  I  lighted  upon  one,  the  hall  of 
which  was  open  and  the  windows  lifted.     After  knocking  for  some 


\ 


1 


'^ 


.30 


vfW'i  -i-»»-.-afm,j.  ■■Hnjy»ii"u'»w'";^'ny'  ■"'I'.wn^i  lymiy 


?'f>i(g^!i««?«»>'<«*r%^«M"** 


ICX) 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


time,  a  young  girl  appeared,  with  many  marks  of  distress.  In  an- 
swer to  my  question,  she  answered  that  both  her  parents  were  sick, 
and  that  they  could  receive  no  one.  I  inquired,  in  vain,  for  any 
other  tavern  at  which  strangers  might  be  accommodated.  She 
knew  of  none  such,  and  left  iri  ■,  on  some  one's  calling  to  her  from 
above,  in  the  midst  of  my  embarrassment.  After  a  moment's 
pause,  I  rei'.iT.ed,  discomfited  and  perplexed,  to  the  street. 

I  proceeded,  in  a  considerable  degree,  at  random.  At  length  I 
reached  a  spacious  building  in  Fourth  Street,  which  the  sign-post 
showed  me  to  be  an  inn.  I  knocked  loudly  and  often  at  the  door. 
At  length  a  female  opened  the  window  of  the  second  story,  and,  in 
a  tone  of  peevishness,  demanded  what  I  wanted.  I  told  her  that 
I  wanted  lodging. 

"  Go  hunt  for  it  somewhere  else,"  said  she ;  "  you'll  find  none 
here."  I  began  to  expostulate;  but  she  shut  the  window  with 
(juickness,  and  left  me  to  my  own  reflections. 

I  began. now  to  feel  some  regret  at  the  journey  I  had  taken. 
Never,  in  the  depth  of  caverns  or  forests,  was  I  equally  conscious 
of  loneliness.  I  was  surrounded  by  the  habitations  of  men  ;  but 
I  was  destitute  of  associate  or  friend.  I  had  money,  but  a  horse- 
shelter,  or  a  morsel  of  food  could  not  be  purchased.  I  came  for 
the  purpose  of  relieving  others,  but  stood  in  the  utmost  need  my- 
self. Even  in  health  my  condition  was  helpless  and  forlorn  ;  but 
what  would  become  of  me  should  this  fatal  malady  be  contracted? 
To  hope  that  an  asylum  would  be  afforded  to  a  sick  man,  which 
was  denied  to  one  in  health,  was  unreasonable. 

lArthur  Mervyn  ;  or  Memoirs  of  the  y^^ar /79J,  1799-1800,  chapter  15.] 


rf  MiV- 


^.IMC^M.  ,-r_ 


^ii^i^i^aimiia^iKitataiii« 


t,^.^:ii. 


'-—irnHHmW' 


'-,-<p'»n'\t>^'' 


;s.  In  an- 
i  were  sick, 
tin,  for  any 
ated.  She 
to  her  from 
moment's 
reet. 

At  length  I 
le  sign-post 
It  the  door, 
ory,  and,  in 
old  her  that 

1  find  none 
indow  with 

had  taken. 
ly  conscious 
f  men ;  but 
but  a  horse- 
I  came  for 
St  need  my- 
forlorn  ;  but 
contracted  ? 
man,  which 

chapter  15.] 


DANIEL   WEBSTER 

[Daniel  Webster  was  born  in  Salisbury,  N.IL,  Jan.  18,  1782.  He  was 
graduated  from  Dartmouth  College  in  180 1,  was  admitted  to  the  bar  in  1805, 
and  soon  became  prominent  as  an  advocate  and  as  an  orator.  He  was 
elected  to  the  lower  house  of  Congress  for  the  first  time  in  1813,  and  again 
in  1815  and  1823.  In  1827  he  entered  the  Senate,  serving  there  until  Presi- 
dent Harrison  appointed  him  Secr"tary  of  State  in  1841.  Resigning  in  1843, 
after  concluding  the  important  Asbburton  Treaty  with  England,  he  re-entered 
the  Senate  in  1845.  In  1850,  he  was  once  more  appointed  Secretary  of  State 
by  President  Fillmore.  He  died  at  his  home  in  Marshfield,  Mass.,  Oct.  24, 
1852.  The  standard  edition  of  his  works,  the  text  of  which  is  followed  in 
this  volume,  is  that  of  1851.  The  best  biography  is  that  by  George  Ticknor 
Curtis. 

Daniel  Webster  was  beyond  all  question  the  greatest  of  Ameri- 
can orators ;  in  the  opinion  of  many  students  of  oratorical  style,  he 
pronounced  at  least  one  oration  that  surpasses  any  other  recorded 
specimen  of  human  eloquence.  He  was,  indeed,  pecuHarly  and 
uniquely  fortunate  both  in  his  natural  gifts  and  in  the  circum- 
stances of  his  remarkable  career.  There  have  been  orators  like 
Burke,  whose  elocution  was  noble  in  diction  and  weighty  in 
thought,  yet  whose  impressiveness  was  marred  by  the  speaker's 
own  physical  insignificance  or  by  an  imperfect  delivery;  there 
have  been  still  others  who,  like  Henry  Clay,  produced  upon  their 
immediate  hearers  an  effect  that  was  almost  wholly  due  to  charm 
of  utterance  and  of  manner ;  but  very  seldom  has  it  been  given  to 
any  one  to  unite,  in  perfect  balance  and  proportion,  the  physical, 
the  intellectual,  and  the  emotional  attributes  that  raise  their  pos- 
sessor to  the  rank  of  a  great  master  of  eloquence. 

Webster,  however,  had  all  the  natural  gifts  and  all  the  ac- 
quired graces  that  go  to  the  endowment  of  the  ideal  orator.  A 
man  of  stately  presence,  and  with  a  fac?  indicative  of  extraor- 
dinary power,  his  manner  was  at  once  easy  and  unaffected,  yet 
stately  and  majestic.  His  intellectual  gifts  were  no  less  striking, 
—  a  marvellous  memory  richly  stored  with  facts  and  illustrations 

lOI 


4M£»<ic-«'-^  .--Mjamtmi^i^mfgf^^ifV^ 


■  "l»ll# 


wnmi>yiniiw)Hwi'i''''i'i '^-^  '  "■  —''-' 


1 02 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


drawn  from  a  large  experience  and  the  widest  reading,  a  keenly 
active,  vigorous,  aiul  logical  mind  that  pierced  through  the  outer 
shell  of  any  question  and  touched  at  once  its  very  core,  an  unfail- 
ing fund  of  common  sense  and  perfect  reasonableness,  a  tact  and 
taste  that  never  made  rhetorical  mistakes  nor  allowed  him  for  a 
moment  to  go  too  far,  and  finally  a  persuasive  human  sympathy 
that  imparted  to  his  stateliest  and  most  massive  utterances  a 
warmth  and  glow  and  color  such  as  vivified  them  and  made  them 
speak  to  the  emotions  as  well  as  to  the  intellect.  His  voice  was 
wonderful  in  its  range  and  quality.  It  carried  his  lightest  words 
with  perfect  ease  to  the  farthest  limits  of  the  vast  audiences  that 
heard  him,  and  it  had  at  once  an  exquisite  beauty  of  tone  and  a 
sonorous  organ-quality  that,  in  the  supreme  moments  of  his  ora- 
tory, was  instinct  with  an  indescribably  thrilling  power. 

Webster  was  no  less  fortunate  in  the  time  and  circumstances  of 
his  remarkable  career.     The  period  of  our  national  history  extend- 
ing from  the  close  of  the  War  of  18 12  to  the  year  of  his  death 
was  a  perioti  when  the  most  vital  issues  were  flung  into  the  politi- 
cal arena.    These  issues  involved  the  broadest  questions  of  con- 
stitutional interpretation,  and  they  touched  alike  the  popular  heart 
and  the  chords  of  conscience ;  so  that  both  intellect  and  senti- 
ment were  aroused  by  their  discussion,   and  the  whole  nation 
watched  with  the  intensest  eagerness  the  forensic  battle  that  sprang 
out  of  them.    The  Senate  of  the  United  States  was  for  forty  years 
a  battle-ground  toward  which  every  eye  was  turned  to  note  each 
phase  of  the  struggle  and  to  judge  each  combatant ;  and  hence  all 
who  contended  there  ditl  so  with  a  knowledge  that  whether  they 
achieved  success  or  failure  the  result  would  at  once  be  recognized 
by  their  countrymen.    And  this  knowledge,  coupled  with  the  im- 
portance of  the  issues  that  were  at  stake,  made  it  inevitable  that 
the  very  ablest  statesmen,  the  foremost  orators,  and  the  most 
acute  debaters  should  be  pitted  there  against  each  other.     Here 
again  was  Webster  fortunate ;  for  under  different  conditions  the 
natu.al  indolence  of  his  temperament  might  never  have  been 
wholly  cast  aside,  buc  might  have  been  allowed  to  obscure  and 
leave  untested  the  tremendous  powers  that  were  slumbering  be- 
neath it.    With  antagonists  whose  intellectual  gifts  were  almost 
equal  to  his  own,  and  with  the  ardor  of  emulation  always  intensely 


tiaiwijitf* 


f  fjAiiiitfiii^N  1 1 


DAmEL  WEBSTER 


103 


a  keenly 

the  outer 
an  unfail- 
a  tact  and 

him  for  a 

sympathy 
erances  a 
lade  them 

voice  was 
itest  words 
iences  that 
tone  and  a 
af  his  ora- 

istances  of 
ary  extend- 
f  his  death 
)  the  politi- 
)ns  of  con- 
>pular  heart 
t  and  senti- 
lole  nation 
that  sprang 
forty  years 

note  each 
»d  hence  all 
hether  they 

recognized 
ifith  the  im- 
vitable  that 
the  most 
ther.  Here 
iditions  the 

have  been 

Dbscure  and 

■iibering  be- 

rtrere  almost 

lys  intensely 


stimulated,  Webster  was  compelled  to  put  forth  every  atom  of 
his  strength.  He  was  throughout  his  whole  senatorial  career  a 
giant  roused  to  conflict,  a  champion  always  fully  arme<i  and  ready 
at  any  moment  to  meet  all  challengers  and  give  instant  battle  for 
the  cause  that  he  had  made  his  own. 

But  most  of  all  was  Webster  fortunate  in  the  cause  itself. 
Entering  the  Senate  at  a  time  when  the  momentous  struggle  was 
beginning  between  those  who  viewed  the  State  as  a  federation  of 
independent  sovereignties  linked  together  for  purposes  of  expedi- 
ency alone,  and  those  who  regarded  it  as  a  united  nation  whose 
constituent  parts  had  been  welded  together  into  an  imperishable 
unity,  it  was  with  the  latter  that  Webster  ranged  himself  at  once, 
and  he  at  once  became  their  acknowledged  chief.  Therefore, 
throughout  the  rest  of  his  career  he  stood  forth  as  the  unflinching 
champion  of  the  national  ideal,  one  whose  every  utterance  ap- 
pealed in  some  way  to  the  pride  of  nationality  and  to  the  desire 
of  the  pec  pie  to  be  great  and  strong  and  magnificent;  and  he 
pictured  this  ideal  in  such  splendid  colors,  and  he  made  it  seem 
so  real,  so  stately,  and  so  glorious  that  in  the  end  the  majority  of 
his  countrymen  accepted  it  as  their  own  and  held  to  it  unflinch- 
ingly when  at  the  last  it  had  to  stand  the  final  test  of  war. 

Webster's  style  had  about  it  always  something  Roman  in  its 
spirit  and  expression.  It  was  always  strong  and  stately,  always 
noble  and  majestic,  always  virile  and  intensely  masterful.  Yet 
there  was  no  heaviness  about  it,  as  there  was  about  the  style  of 
Benton ;  his  thought  flashed  through  it  all  with  a  certain  lithe 
alertness  that  is  seldom  joined  to  so  much  pomp  and  pageantry. 
Technically  described  in  the  language  of  ancient  rhetorical  criti- 
cism, it  was  a  perfect  example  of  the  "Rhodian"  style,  —  the 
middle  style,  as  distinguished  from  the  florid  "Asiatic"  manner 
of  orators  like  Legard  and  Thomas  Corwin,  and  from  the  Attic 
simplicity  of  his  lifelong  antagonist  Calhoun.  The  closest  parallel 
to  it  is  to  be  found  in  the  oratory  of  Cicero.  Its  rhetoric  is  as  per- 
fect iu  its  choice  of  phrase,  in  its  marshalling  of  the  sentences,  in 
the  rhythmical  swing  of  its  cadences,  and  in  the  beauty  and  exquisite 
fitness  of  its  imagery.  Yet  it  is  far  superior  to  Cicero's  In  this, 
that  we  are  never  conscious  in  Webster  of  that  combination  of 
weakness  and  insincerity,  of  pose  and  special  pleading  which  the 


I04 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


Ciceronian  oratory  exhibits,  nor  of  the  cheap  facility  of  the  trained 
advocate,  who  can  argue  with  equal  plausibility  on  any  side  of 
every  question.  Webster  was  always  intensely  in  earnest;  the 
note  of  perfect  conviction  dominates  his  utterances ;  and  there  is 
an  undercurrent  of  the  passion  that  stirs  the  blood  and  gives  en- 
during vitality  to  the  words  and  thoughts  of  the  inspired  orator. 

The  Websterian  style,  whether  it  be  studied  in  the  legal  or  in 
the  forensic  oratory  of  its  master,  or  in  his  formal  correspondence, 
will  be  found  to  show  at  all  times  the  same  essential  character- 
istics, though  with  modifications  to  suit  the  occasion  or  the 
personality  of  his  auditors.  In  his  legal  oratory  he  is  simpler  and 
more  direct  than  elsewhere  ;  in  his  great  senatorial  speeches  he  is 
more  rhetorical  and  splendid ;  in  his  correspondence  he  is  more 
terse  and  pointed  ;  yet  he  is  always  Roman. 

The  grandest  and  most  magnificent  of  all  his  orations  is  the 
celebrated  reply  to  Hayne,  which  was  pronmmced  at  the  climax  of 
a  great  national  debate,  on  an  occasion  of  intense  dramatic  inter- 
est, and  under  circumstances  which  suggest  a  gladiatorial  combat, 
with  the  whole  nation  as  spectators.    Of  this  oration  no  words  can 
exaggerate  the  importance  or  the  power.     It  is  indeed,  to  borrow 
a  phrase  of  Quintilian,  less  a  creation  of  eloquence  than  the  very 
voice  of  eloquence  itself.     Every  quality  of    he  bom  orator  is 
seen  in  it  — the  art  of  arrangement,  the  symmetrical  development 
of  the  central  thought,  the  effective  marshalling  of  facts,  the  grace 
of  diction,  the  beauty  of  imagery,  and,  in  the  grand  peroration, 
the  whole  power  and  sustained  magnificence  of  a  great  imagina- 
tive intellect  aflame  with  passion,  yet  conscious  of  its  own  irre- 
sistible strength,  so  that  it  does  not  hurry,  but  sweeps  along  with 
an  ever  ncreasing  impetus,  until  it  carries  all  before  it,  and  ends 
in  a  burst  of  stirring  music  that  is  overwhelming  in  its  sublimity 
and  splendor.    This  oration  must  stand  as  the  supreme  example  of 
successful  oratory,  since  its  words  are  as  thrilling  to-day  as  at  the 
very  moment  when  they  were  first  spoken ;  and  from  that  moment 
they  became  a  living  power  in  our  political  life ;  for,  declaimed 
by  every  schoolboy  throughout  the  land,  they  sank  down  deep 
into  the  national  consciousness,  and  thus  in  the  end  profoundly 
influenced  the  whole  future  of  our  national  history. 

Harry  Thurston  Peck 


F^irMrrtriiiitotea-rji 


the  trained 
iny  side  of 
irnest ;  the 
ind  there  is 
d  gives  en- 
id  orator. 

legal  or  in 
:spondence, 
I  character- 
jion  or  the 
simpler  and 
eeches  he  is 

he  is  more 

tions  is  the 
le  climax  of 
matic  inter- 
rial  combat, 
o  words  can 
d,  to  borrow 
lan  the  very 
irn  orator  is 
ievelopment 
ts,  the  grace 
,  peroration, 
sat  imagina- 
ts  own  irre- 
)s  along  with 
it,  and  ends 
its  sublimity 
;  example  of 
day  as  at  the 
that  moment 
•r,  declaimed 
;  down  deep 
i  profoundly 


5T0N  Peck 


S^SEi 


DANIEL    WEBSTKR  I  OS 


THE   EXAMPLE  OF  OUR  COUNTKY 

And  now,  let  us  indulge  an  honest  exultation  in  the  conviction 
of  the  benefit  which  the  example  of  our  country  has  produced, 
and  is  likely  to  produce,  on  human  freedom  and  human  happiness. 
Let  us  endeavor  to  comprehend  in  all  its  magnitude,  and  to  feel 
in  all  its  importance,  the  part  issigned  to  us  in  the  great  drama  of 
human  affairs.  We  are  placed  at  the  head  of  the  system  of  repre- 
sentative and  popular  governments.  Thus  far  our  example  shows 
that  such  governments  are  compatible,  not  only  with  respectabihty 
and  power,  but  with  repose,  with  peace,  with  security  of  personal 
rights,  with  good  laws,  and  a  just  administration. 

We  are  not  propagandists.  Wherever  other  systems  are  pre- 
ferred, either  as  being  thought  better  in  themselves,  or  as  better 
suited  to  existing  condition,  we  leave  tiie  preference  to  be  enjoyed. 
Our  history  hitherto  proves,  however,  that  the  popular  form  is 
practicable,  and  that  with  wisdom  and  knowledge  men  may  govern 
themselves  ;  and  the  duty  incumbent  on  us  is,  to  preserve  the  con- 
sistency of  this  cheering  example,  and  take  care  that  nothing  may 
weaken  its  authority  with  the  world.  If,  in  our  case,  the  represent- 
ative system  ultimately  fail,  popular  governments  must  be  pro- 
nounced impossible.  No  combination  of  circumstances  more 
favorable  to  the  experiment  can  ever  be  expected  to  occur.  The 
last  hopes  of  mankind,  therefore,  rest  vi^ith  us  ;  and  if  it  should  be 
proclaimed,  that  our  example  had  become  an  argument  against  the 
experiment,  the  knell  of  popular  liberty  would  be  sounded  through- 
out the  earth. 

These  are  excitements  to  duty  ;  but  they  are  not  suggestions  of 
doubt.  Our  history  and  our  condition,  all  that  is  gone  before  us, 
and  all  that  surrounds  us,  authorize  the  belief,  that  popular  govern- 
ments, though  subject  to  occasional  variations,  in  form  perhaps 
not  always  for  the  better,  may  yet,  in  their  general  character,  be 
as  durable  and  permanent  as  other  systems.  We  know,  indeed, 
that  in  our  country  any  other  is  impossible.  The  principle  of  free 
governments  adheres  to  the  American  soil.  It  is  bedded  in  it, 
immovable  as  its  mountains. 

And  let  the  sacred  obligations  which  have  devolved  on  this 


i 

■ 


\   I' 


io6 


AAfEh'ICAN  PKOSE 


generation,  and  on  us,  sink  deep  into  our  hearts.  Those  who 
estabUshed  our  liberty  anil  our  government  are  daily  dropping  from 
among  us.  'I'he  great  trust  now  descends  to  new  hanils.  Let  us 
apply  ourselves  to  that  which  is  presented  to  us,  as  our  appropri- 
ate object.  We  can  win  no  laurels  in  a  war  for  independence. 
Earlier  and  worthier  hands  have  gathered  them  all.  Nor  are  there 
places  for  ur  by  the  side  of  Solon,  and  Alfred,  and  other  founders 
of  states.  Our  fiithers  have  filled  them.  But  there  remains  to  us 
a  great  duty  of  defence  and  preservation  ;  and  there  is  opened  to 
us,  also,  a  noble  pursuit,  to  which  the  spirit  of  the  times  strongly 
invites  us.  Our  proper  business  is  improvement.  Let  our  age  be 
the  age  of  improvement.  In  a  day  of  peace,  let  us  advance  the 
arts  of  peace  and  the  works  of  peace.  Let  us  develop  the  re- 
sources of  our  land,  call  forth  its  powers,  build  up  its  institutions, 
promote  all  its  great  interests,  and  see  whether  we  also,  in  our  day 
and  generation,  may  not  perform  something  worthy  to  be  remem- 
bered. Let  us  cultivate  a  true  spirit  of  union  and  harmony.  In 
pursuing  the  great  objects  which  our  condition  points  out  to  us,  let 
us  act  under  a  settled  conviction,  and  an  habitual  feeling,  that  these 
twenty-four  States  are  one  country.  Let  our  conceptions  be  en- 
larged to  the  circle  of  our  duties.  Let  us  extend  our  ideas  over 
the  whole  of  the  vast  field  in  which  we  are  called  to  act.  Let  our 
object  be,  our  country,  our  whole  country,  and  nothing  but 
OUR  country.  And,  by  the  blessing  of  God,  may  that  country 
itself  become  a  vast  and  splendid  monument,  not  of  oppression 
and  terror,  but  of  V/isdom,  of  Peace,  and  of  Liberty,  upon  which 
the  world  may  gaze  with  admiration  for  ever  !         ^  ^    ^. 

[From  'J'/ie  Bunker  Hill  Afoimment,  an  address  delivered  at  the  laying  of 
the  corner-stone  of  the  Bunker  Hill  Monument  at  Charlestown,  Mass.,  June 
17,  1825.     IVorks,  vol.  i,  pp.  76-78.] 


SPEECH   OF   JOHN    ADAMS 

It  was  for  Mr.  Adams  to  reply  to  arguments  like  these.  We 
know  his  opinions,  and  we  know  his  character.  He  would  com- 
mence with  his  accustomed  directness  and  earnestness. 

"  Sink  or  swim,  live  or  die,  survive  or  perish,  I  give  my  hand 


■..MXki.- 


DANIEL    WEBSTER' 


tojr 


Those  who 
jpping  from 
Is.  Let  us 
ir  appropri- 
lependence. 
or  are  there 
ler  founders 
mains  to  us 
s  opened  to 
nes  strongly 
:  our  age  be 
idvance  the 
ilop  the  re- 
institutions, 
I,  in  our  day 
be  remem- 
rmony.  In 
ut  to  us,  let 
g,  that  these 
ions  be  en- 
r  ideas  over 
;t.     Let  our 

lOTHING   BUT 

hat  country 

oppression 

upon  which 


:  the  laying  of 
1,  Mass.,  June 


these.     We 
vould  com- 

^e  my  hand 


and  my  heart  to  this  vote.  It  is  true,  indeed,  that  in  the  begin- 
ning we  aimed  "ot  at  independence.  Rut  tliere's  a  Divinity  which 
shapes  our  ends.  The  injustice  of  England  has  driven  us  to 
arms ;  and,  blinded  to  her  own  interest  for  our  good,  she  has 
obstinately  persisted,  till  independence  is  now  within  our  grasp. 
We  have  but  to  reach  forth  to  it,  and  it  is  ours.  Why,  then, 
shouUl  we  defer  the  Declaration?  Is  any  man  so  weak  as  now 
to  hope  for  a  reconciliation  with  England,  which  shall  leave 
either  safety  to  the  country  and  its  liberties,  or  safety  to  his  own 
life  and  his  own  honor?  Are  not  you.  Sir,  who  sit  in  that  chair, 
is  not  he,  our  venerable  colleague  near  you,  are  you  not  both 
already  the  proscribed  and  predestined  objects  of  punishment  and 
of  vengeance  ?  Cut  off  from  all  hope  of  royal  clemency,  what  are 
you,  what  can  you  be,  while  the  power  of  England  remains,  but 
outlaws  ?  I  f  we  postpone  independence,  do  we  mean  to  carry  on, 
or  to  give  up,  the  war?  Do  we  mean  to  submit  to  the  measures 
of  Parliament,  Boston  Port  Bill  and  all  ?  Do  we  mean  to  submit, 
and  consent  that  we  ourselves  shall  be  ground  to  powder,  and  our 
country  and  its  rights  trodden  down  in  the  dust?  I  know  we  do 
not  mean  to  submit.  We  never  shall  submit.  Do  wie  intend  to 
violate  that  most  solemn  obligation  ever  entered  into  by  men, 
th.-it  plighting,  before  God,  of  our  sacred  honor  to  Washington, 
when,  putting  him  forth  to  incur  the  dangers  of  war,  as  well  as  the 
political  hazards  of  the  times,  we  promised  to  adhere  to  him,  in 
every  extremity,  with  our  fortunes  and  our  lives  ?  I  know  there 
is  not  a  man  here,  who  would  not  rather  see  a  general  conflagra- 
tion sweep  over  the  land,  or  an  earthquake  sink  it,  than  one  jot  or 
tittle  of  that  plighted  faith  fall  to  the  ground.  For  myself,  having, 
twelve  months  ago,  in  this  place,  moved  you,  that  George  Wash- 
ington be  appointed  commander  of  the  forces  raised,  or  to  be 
raised,  for  defence  of  American  liberty,  may  my  right  hand  forget 
her  cunning,  and  my  tongue  cleave  to  the  roof  of  my  mouth,  if  I 
hesitate  or  waver  in  the  suppo.t  I  give  him. 

"  The  war,  then,  must  go  on.  We  must  fight  it  through.  And 
if  the  war  must  go  on,  why  put  off  longer  the  Declaration  of  Inde- 
pendence? That  measure  will  strengthen  us.  It  will  give  us 
character  abroad.  The  nations  will  then  treat  with  us,  which 
they  never  can  do  while  we  acknowledge  ourselves  subjects,  in 


4 


; 


' 


f 


! 


1 08 


AMERICAN  rHOSK 


arms  :i^':iinst  our  sovereign.  Nay,  I  inaintiiiii  tluit  Kngland  her- 
self will  sooner  treat  for  i)eace  witli  ns  on  the  fooling  of  indepen- 
dence, than  consent,  by  repealing  her  acts,  to  acknowledge  that 
her  whole  conduct  towards  us  has  been  a  course  of  injustice  and 
oppression.  Her  pride  will  be  less  wounded  by  submitting  to 
that  course  of  things  which  now  predestinates  our  independence, 
than  by  yielding  the  points  in  controversy  to  her  rebellious  sub- 
jects. The  former  she  would  regartl  as  the  result  of  fortune  ;  the 
latter  she  would  feel  as  her  own  deep  disgrace.  Why,  then,  why 
then,  Sir,  do  we  not  as  soon  as  possilile  change  this  from  a  civil  to 
a  national  war  ?  And  since  we  must  fight  it  through,  why  not  put 
ourselves  in  a  state  to  enjoy  all  the  benefits  of  victory,  if  we  gain 
the  victory  ? 

"  If  we  fiiil,  it  can  be  no  worse  for  us.  But  we  shall  not  fail. 
The  cause  will  raise  up  armies;  the  cause  will  create  navies.  The 
people,  the  people,  if  we  are  true  to  them,  will  carry  us,  and  will 
carry  themselves,  gloriously,  through  this  struggle.  I  care  not 
how  fickle  other  people  have  been  found.  I  know  the  people  of 
these  Colonies,  and  I  know  that  resistance  to  British  aggression  is 
deep  and  settled  in  their  hearts  and  cannot  be  eradicated.  Every 
Colony,  indeed,  has  expressed  its  willingness  to  follow,  if  we  but 
take  the  lead.  Sir,  the  Declaration  will  inspire  the  people  with 
increased  courage.  Instead  of  a  long  ard  b  oody  war  for  the 
restoration  of  privileges,  for  redress  of  grievances,  for  chartered 
immunities,  held  under  a  British  king,  set  before  them  the  glorious 
object  of  entire  independence,  and  it  will  breathe  into  them  anew 
the  breath  of  life.  Read  this  Declaration  at  the  head  of  the 
army;  every  sword  will  be  drawn  from  its  scabbard,  and  the 
solemn  vow  uttered,  to  maintain  it,  or  to  perish  on  the  bed  of 
honor.  Publish  it  from  the  pulpit ;  religion  will  approve  it,  and 
the  love  of  religious  liberty  will  cling  round  it.  resolved  to  stand 
with  it,  or  fall  with  it.  Send  it  to  the  public  halls ;  proclaim  it 
there ;  let  them  hear  it  who  heard  the  first  roar  of  the  enemy's 
cannon  ;  let  them  see  it  who  saw  their  brothers  and  their  sons  fall 
on  the  field  of  Bunker  Hill,  and  in  the  streets  of  Lexington  and 
Concord,  and  the  very  walls  will  cry  out  in  its  support. 

"  Sir,  I  know  the  uncertainty  of  human  affairs,  but  I  see,  I  sec 
clearly,  through  this  day's  business.     You  and  I,  indeed,  may  rue 


DAiWlF.L    WEOSTEK 


109 


gland  her- 
f  indepcn- 
rledge  that 
Histice  and 
imitting  to 
ependence, 
illious  sub- 
•rtiine  ;  the 
,  then,  why 
m  a  civil  to 
vhy  not  put 
,  if  we  gain 

ill  not  fail, 
ivies.  The 
us,  and  will 
I  care  not 
e  people  of 
agression  is 
ted.  Every 
V,  if  we  but 
people  with 
ivar  for  the 
X  chartered 
the  glorious 
them  anew 
lead  of  the 
d,  and  the 
the  bed  of 
rove  it,  and 
ed  to  stand 
proclaim  it 
he  enemy's 
leir  sons  fall 
Kington  and 

I  see,  I  sec 
ed,  may  rue 


it.  We  may  not  live  to  the  time  when  this  Declaration  shall  be 
made  good.  We  may  die  ;  die  colonists  ;  die  slaves  ;  die,  it  may 
be,  ignominiously  and  on  the  scaffold.  Be  it  so.  Be  it  so.  If  it 
be  the  pleasure  of  Heaven  that  my  country  shall  require  the  poor 
offering  of  my  life,  the  victim  shall  be  ready,  at  the  appointed 
hour  of  sacrifice,  come  when  that  hour  may.  But  while  I  do  live, 
let  me  have  a  country,  or  at  least  the  hoi^c  of  a  country,  and  that 
a  free  country. 

"  Eat  whatever  may  be  our  fate,  be  assured,  be  assured,  that  this 
Declaration  will  stand.  It  may  cost  treasure,  and  it  may  cost  blood  ; 
but  it  will  stand,  and  it  will  richly  compensate  for  both.  Through 
the  thick  gloom  of  the  present,  I  see  the  brightness  of  the  future, 
as  the  sun  in  heaven.  W'-  shall  make  this  a  glorious,  an  immor- 
tal day.  When  we  are  in  our  graves,  our  children  will  honor  it. 
They  will  celebrate  it  with  thanksgiving,  with  festivity,  with  bon- 
fires, and  illuminations.  On  its  annual  return  they  will  shed  tears, 
copious,  gushing  tears,  not  of  subjection  and  slavery,  not  of  agony 
and  distress,  but  of  exultation,  of  gratitude,  and  of  joy.  Sir,  before 
God,  I  believe  ihe  hour  is  come.  My  judgment  approves  this 
measure,  and  my  whole  heart  is  in  it.  All  that  I  have,  and  all 
that  I  am,  and  all  that  I  hope,  in  this  life,  I  am  now  ready  here  to 
stake  upon  it ;  and  I  leave  off  as  I  begun,  that  live  or  die,  survive 
or  perish,  I  am  for  the  Declaration.  It  is  my  living  sentiment, 
and  by  the  blessing  of  God  it  shall  be  my  dying  sentiment,  Inde- 
pendence, now,  and  independence  for  ever." 

And  so  that  day  shall  be  honored,  illustrious  prophet  and 
patriot !  so  that  day  shall  be  honored,  and  as  often  as  it  returns, 
thy  renown  shall  come  along  with  it,  and  the  glory  of  thy  life, 
like  the  day  of  thy  death,  shall  not  fail  from  the  remembrance  of 
men. 

[From  Adams  and  Jefferson,  a  discourse  in  commemoration  01  the  lives  and 
services  of  John  Adams  and  Thomas  Jefferson,  delivered  in  Faneuil  Hall, 
Boston,  August  2,  1826.     Works,  vol.  i,  pp.  133-136.] 

LIBERTY  AND  UNION 

Direct  collision,  therefore,  between  force  and  force,  is  the 
unavoidable  result  of  that  remedy  for  the  revision  of  unconstitu- 


./ 


'I 


no 


AMERICAN  P/iOSE 


tional  laws  which  the  gentleman  contends  for.  It  must  happen  in 
the  very  first  case  to  which  it  is  applied.  Is  not  this  the  plain 
result?  'l"o  resist  by  force  the  execution  of  a  law,  gener.-'.lly,  is 
treason,  ("an  the  courts  of  the  United  States  lake  notice  of  the 
indulgence  of  a  State  to  commit  treason?  The  common  saying, 
that  a  State  cannot  commit  treason  herself,  is  nothing  to  the  pur- 
pose. Can  she  authorize  others  to  do  it?  If  John  Fries  had 
produced  an  act  of  Pennsylvania,  annulling  the  law  of  Congress, 
would  it  have  helped  his  case?  Talk  about  it  as  we  will,  these 
doctrines  go  the  length  of  revolution.  They  are  incompatible 
with  any  peaceable  administration  of  the  government.  They  lead 
directly  to  disunion  and  civil  commotion ;  and  therefore  it  is, 
that  at  their  commencement,  when  they  are  first  found  to  be 
maintained  by  respectable  men,  and  in  a  tangible  form,  I  enter 
my  public  protest  against  them  all. 

The  honorable  gentleman  argues,  that  if  this  government  be 
the  sole  judge  of  the  extent  of  its  own  powers,  whether  that  right 
of  judging  be  in  Congress  or  the  Supreme  Court,  it  equally  sub- 
verts State  SO',  ireignty.  This  the  gentleman  sees,  or  thinks  he 
sees,  although  he  cannot  perceive  how  the  right  of  judging,  in  this 
matter,  if  left  to  the  exercise  of  State  legislatures,  has  any  ten- 
dency to  subvert  the  government  of  the  Union.  The  gentleman's 
opinion  may  be,  that  the  right  ought  not  to  have  been  lodged  with 
the  general  government ;  he  may  like  better  such  a  constitution 
as  we  should  ha"e  under  the  right  of  State  interference ;  but  I 
ask  him  to  meet  me  on  the  plain  matter  of  fact.  I  ask  him  to 
meet  me  on  the  Constitution  itself.  I  ask  him  if  the  power  is 
not  found  there,  clearly  and  visibl'  found  there  ? 

But,  Sir,  what  is  this  danger,  and  what  the  grounds  of  it?  Let 
it  be  remembered,  that  the  Constitution  of  the  United  States 
is  not  unalterable.  It  is  to  continue  in  its  present  form  no  longer 
than  the  people  who  established  it  shall  choose  to  continue  it.  If 
they  shall  become  convinced  that  they  have  made  an  injudicious 
or  inexpedient  partition  and  distribution  of  power  between  the 
State  governments  and  the  general  government,  they  can  alter 
that  distribution  at  will. 

If  anything  be  found  in  the  national  Constitution,  either  by 
original  provision  or  subsequent  interpretation,  which  ought  not 


DANIEL    WEHSTI'.R 


II  I 


t  l.a|)pen  in 
s  the  plain 
{enerr.lly,  is 
)tire  of  the 
non  saying, 
to  the  pur- 
I  Fries  had 
f  Congress, 
!  will,  these 
icompatible 
They  lead 
re  fore  it  is, 
jund  to  be 
rm,  I  enter 

ernment  be 
r  that  right 
squally  sub- 
r  thinks  he 
^ing,  in  this 
as  any  ten- 
gentleman's 
lodged  with 
constitution 
nee ;  but  I 
ask  him  to 
le  power  is 

of  it?  Let 
lited  States 
n  no  longer 
inue  it.  If 
injudicious 
letween  the 
y  can  alter 

1,  either  by 
[  ought  not 


to  be  in  it,  the  people  know  how  to  get  rid  of  it.  If  any  con- 
struction, unacceptable  to  them,  be  established,  so  as  to  become 
practically  a  part  of  the  ('onstitiition,  they  will  amend  it,  at  their 
own  sovereign  pleasure.  Hut  while  the  people  choose  to  maintain 
it  as  it  is,  while  they  are  satisfied  with  it,  and  refuse  to  change  it, 
who  has  given,  or  who  can  give,  to  the  State  legislatures  a  right 
to  alter  it,  either  by  interference,  construction,  or  otherwise? 
Gentlemen  do  not  'seem  to  recollect  that  the  people  have  any 
power  to  do  any  thing  for  themselves.  They  imagine  there  is  no 
safety  for  them,  any  longer  than  they  are  under  the  close  guardian- 
ship of  the  State  legislatures.  Sir,  the  people  have  not  trusted 
their  safety,  in  regard  to  the  general  Constitution,  to  tliese  hands. 
They  have  required  other  security,  and  taken  other  bonds.  They 
have  chosen  to  trust  themselves,  first,  to  the  plain  words  of  the 
instrument,  and  to  such  construction  as  the  government  itself,  in 
doubtful  cases,  should  put  on  their  own  powers,  under  their  oaths 
of  office,  and  subject  to  their  responsibility  to  them ;  just  as  the 
])eople  of  a  State  trust  their  own  State  governments  with  a  similar 
power.  Secondly,  they  have  reposed  their  trust  in  the  efficacy  of 
frequent  elections,  and  in  their  own  power  to  remove  their  own 
servants  and  agents  whenever  they  see  cause.  Thirdly,  they  have 
reposed  trust  in  the  judicial  power,  which,  in  order  that  it  might 
be  trustworthy,  they  have  made  as  respectable,  as  disinterested, 
and  as  independent  as  was  practicable.  Fourthly,  they  have 
seen  fit  to  rely,  in  case  of  necessity,  or  high  expediency,  on  their 
known  and  admitted  j-ower  to  alter  or  amend  the  Constitution, 
peaceably  and  quietly,  whenever  experience  shall  point  out 
defects  or  imperfections.  And,  finally,  the  people  of  the  United 
States  have,  at  no  time,  in  no  way,  directly  or  indirectly,  author- 
ized any  State  legislature  to  construe  or  interpret  their  high 
instrument  of  government ;  much  less,  to  interfere,  by  their  own 
power,  to  arrest  its  course  and  operation. 

If,  Sir,  the  people  in  these  respects  had  done  otherwise  than 
they  have  done,  their  constitution  could  neither  have  been  pre- 
served, nor  would  it  have  been  wort'i  preserving.  And  if  its 
plain  provisions  shall  now  be  disregarded,  and  these  new  doctrines 
interpolated  in  it,  it  will  become  as  feeble  and  helpless  a  being  as 
its  enemies,  whether  early  or  more  recent,  could  possibly  desire. 


112 


AMU  HI  CAN  PKOSr. 


It  will  exist  in  every  State,  but  as  a  i)ot),-  (lept'iuU-nl  on  State  i)er- 
mission.  It  must  borrow  leave  to  l)e ;  aiul  will  ,  no  longer 
than  State  pleasure,  or  State  discretion,  sees  fit  to  grant  the  indul- 
gence, and  to  prolong  its  poor  existence. 

Hut,  Sir,  altho\igh  there  are  fears,  there  are  hopes  also.  The 
people  have  preserved  this,  their  own  chosen  ('onstitution,  for 
forty  years,  and  have  seen  their  happiness,  prosperity,  and  renown 
grow  with  its  growth,  and  strengthen  with  its  strength.  They  are 
now,  generally,  strongly  attached  to  it.  Overthrown  by  direct 
assault,  it  cannot  be ;  evaded,  undermined,  nui.i.ikikd,  it  will  not 
be,  if  we,  and  those  who  shall  succeed  us  here,  as  agents  and 
representatives  of  the  peoi)le,  shall  conscientiously  and  vigilantly 
discharge  the  two  great  branches  of  our  public  trust,  faithfully 
to  preserve,  and  wisely  to  administer  it. 

Mr.  President,  I  have  thus  stated  the  reasons  of  my  dissent  to 
the  doctrines  which  have  been  advanced  and  maintained.  I  am 
conscious  of  having  detained  you  and  the  Senate  much  too  long. 
I  was  drawn  into  the  debate  with  no  previous  deliberation,  such  as 
is  suited  to  the  discussion  of  so  grave  and  impor';ant  a  subject. 
But  it  is  a  subject  of  which  my  heart  is  full,  and  I  have  not  been 
willing  to  suppress  the  utterance  of  its  spontaneous  sentiments.  I 
cannot,  even  now,  persuade  myself  to  relinquish  it,  without  ex- 
pressing once  more  my  deep  conviction,  that,  since  it  respects 
nothing  less  than  the  Union  of  the  States,  it  is  of  most  vital  and 
essential  importance  to  the  public  happiness.  I  profess.  Sir,  in 
my  career  hitherto,  to  have  kept  steadily  in  view  the  prosperity 
and  honor  of  the  whole  country,  and  the  preservation  of  our 
Federal  Union.  It  is  to  that  Union  we  owe  our  safety  at  home, 
and  our  consideration  and  dignity  abroad.  It  is  to  that  Union 
that  we  are  chiefly  indebted  for  whatever  makes  us  most  proud  of 
our  country.  That  Union  we  reached  only  by  the  discipline  of 
our  virtues  in  the  severe  school  of  adversity.  It  had  its  origin  in 
the  necessities  of  disordered  finance,  prostrate  commerce,  and 
ruined  credit.  Under  its  bei.ign  influences,  these  great  interests 
immediately  awoke,  as  from  the  dead,  and  sprang  forth  with  new- 
ness of  life.  Every  year  of  its  duration  has  teemed  with  fresh 
proofs  of  its  utility  and  its  blessings ;  and,  although  our  terriiory 
has  stretched  out  wider  and  wider,  and  our  j)opulation  spread 


»>mf 


.-/- 


DANIEL    WERSTF.R 


113 


I  State  i>er- 

no  longer 

t  the  iiulul- 

also.  The 
itution,  for 
md  renown 
They  are 
1  by  direct 
it  will  not 
agents  and 
il  vigilantly 
t,  faithfully 

y  dissent  to 
ned.  I  atn 
;h  too  long, 
ion,  snch  as 
t  a  subject, 
ve  not  been 
itiments.  I 
without  ex- 
it respects 
)st  vital  and 
)fess,  Sir,  in 
:  prosi)erity 
tion  of  our 
ty  at  home, 
that  Union 
ist  proud  of 
iscipline  of 
its  origin  in 
merce,  and 
;at  interests 
h  with  new- 
with  fresh 
lur  terriiory 
tion  spread 


farther  and  flirther,  tlicy  have  not  outrun  its  protection  or  its 
benefits.  It  has  been  to  us  all  a  copious  fountain  of  national, 
social,  and  personal  happiness. 

I  have  not  allowed  myself,  Sir,  to  look  beyond  the  Union, 
to  see  what  might  lie  hidden  in  the  dark  recess  behind.  I 
have  not  coolly  weighed  the  chances  of  preserving  liberty 
when  the  Iwnds  that  unite  us  together  shall  be  broken  asun- 
der. I  have  not  accustomed  myself  to  hang  over  the  precipice 
of  disunion,  to  see  whether,  with  my  short  sight,  I  can  fathom 
the  depth  of  the  abyss  below  ;  nor  could  I  regard  him  as  a 
safe  counsellor  in  the  affairs  of  this  government,  whose  thoughts 
should  be  mainly  bent  on  considering,  not  how  the  Union  may 
be  best  preserveil,  but  how  tolerable  might  be  the  condition  of 
the  people  when  it  should  be  broken  up  and  destroyed.  While  the 
Union  lasts,  we  have  high,  exciting,  gratifying  prospects  spread 
out  before  us,  for  us  and  our  children,  lieyond  that  I  seek  not 
to  penetrate  the  veil.  God  grant  that  in  my  day,  at  least,  that 
curtain  may  not  rise  !  God  grant  that  on  my  vision  never  may  be 
opened  what  lies  behind  I  When  my  eyes  shall  be  turned  to  be- 
hold for  the  last  time  the  sun  in  heaven,  may  I  not  see  him 
shining  on  the  broken  and  dishonored  fragments  of  a  once  glorious 
Union ;  on  States  dissevered,  discordant,  belligerent ;  on  a  land 
rent  with  civil  feuds,  or  drenched,  it  may  be,  in  fraternal  blood  1 
Let  their  last  feeble  and  lingering  glance  rather  behold  the 
j,'orgeous  ensign  of  the  republic,  now  known  and  honored 
throughout  the  earth,  still  full  high  advanced,  its  arms  and 
trophies  streaming  in  their  original  lustre,  not  a  stripe  erased  or 
polluted,  ijor  a  single  star  obscured,  beiiring  for  its  motto,  no  such 
miserable  interrogntory  as  "What  is  all  this  worth?"  nor  those 
other  words  of  delusion  and  folly,  "  Liberty  first  and  Union  after- 
wards ; "  but  everywhere,  spread  all  over  in  characters  of  living 
light,  blazing  on  all  its  ample  folds,  as  they  float  over  the  sea  and 
over  the  land,  and  in  every  wind  under  the  whole  heavens,  that 
other  sentiment,  dear  to  every  true  American  heart,  Liberty  and 
Union,  now  and  for  ever,  one  and  inseparable  ! 

[From  Second  Spetth  on  Foot's  Resolution,  commonly  known  ait  tfie  "Re- 
ply  to  Ilayne,"  delivered  in  the  Senate  uf  the  United  SUtes  on  Jan.  26,  i8jo. 
Works,  vol.  iii,  pp.  338-342.]  ,  ...    ,rx, 

I  '.  ■"■,"■''.  .-' 


^TT^i^y^ 


114 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


THE    DRUM-BEAT   OF   ENGLAND 


\ 


The  Senate  regarded  this  interposition  as  an  encroachment  by 
the  executive  on  other  branches  of  the  government ;  as  an  inter- 
ference with  the  legislative  disposition  of  the  public  treasure.  It 
was  strongly  and  forcibly  urged,  yesterday,  by  the  honorable 
member  from  South  Carolina,  that  the  true  and  only  mode  of 
preserving  any  balance  of  power,  in  mixed  governments,  is  to 
keep  an  exact  balance.  This  is  very  true,  and  to  this  end  en- 
croachment must  be  resisted  at  the  first  step.  The  question  is, 
therefore,  whether,  upon  the  true  principles  of  the  Constitution, 
this  exercise  of  power  by  the  President  can  be  justified.  Whether 
the  consequence  be  prejudicial  or  not,  if  there  be  an  illegal  exer- 
cise of  power,  it  is  to  be  resisted  in  the  proper  manner.  Even 
if  no  harm  or  inconvenience  result  from  transgressing  the  boun- 
dary, the  ii>trusion  is  not  to  be  suffered  to  pass  unnoticed.  Every 
encroachment,  great  or  small,  is  important  enough  to  awaken  the 
attention  of  those  who  are  intrusted  with  the  preservation  of 
a  constitutional  government.  We  are  not  to  wait  till  great  public 
mischiefs  come,  till  the  government  is  overthrown,  or  liberty  itself 
put  into  extreme  jeopardy.  We  should  not  be  worthy  sons  of  our 
fathers  were  we  so  to  regard  great  questions  affecting  the  general 
freedom.  Those  fathers  accomplished  the  Revolution  on  a  strict 
question  of  principle.  The  Parliament  of  Great  Britain  asserted 
a  right  to  tax  the  Colonies  in  all  cases  whatsoever ;  and  it  was 
precisely  on  this  question  that  they  made  the  Revolution  turn. 
The  amount  of  taxation  was  trifling,  but  the  claim  itself  was  incon- 
sistent with  liberty ;  and  that  was,  in  their  eyes,  enough.  It  was 
against  the  recital  of  an  act  of  Parliament,  rather  than  against  any 
suffering  under  its  enactments,  that  they  took  up  arms.  They 
went  to  war  against  a  preamble.  They  fought  seven  years  against 
a  declaration.  They  poured  out  their  treasures  and  their  blood 
like  water,  in  a  contest  against  an  assertion  which  those  less  saga- 
cious and  no.  so  well  schooled  in  the  principles  of  civil  liberty 
would  have  regarded  as  barren  phraseology,  or  mere  parade 
of  words.  They  saw  in  the  claim  of  the  British  Parliament  a 
semina'  principle  of  mischief,  the  germ  of  unjust  power ;  they 


ichment  by 
IS  an  inter- 
easure.  It 
honorable 
y  mode  of 
lents,  is  to 
liis  end  en- 
question  is, 
lonstitution, 
.  Whether 
illegal  exer- 
ner.  Even 
;  the  boun- 
;ed.  Every 
awaken  the 
srvation  of 
a;reat  public 
iberty  itself 
sons  of  our 
the  general 
1  on  a  strict 
ain  asserted 
and  it  was 
lution  turn. 
■  was  incon- 
gh.  It  was 
against  any 
ms.  They 
ears  against 
their  blood 
e  less  saga- 
civil  liberty 
ere  parade 
arliament  a 
ower ;  they 


DANIEL    WEBSTER 


"5 


detected  it,  dragged  it  forth  from  underneath  its  plausible  dis- 
guises, struck  at  it ;  nor  did  it  elude  either  their  steady  eye  or 
their  well-directed  blow  till  they  had  extirpated  and  destroyed  it, 
to  the  smallest  fibre.  On  this  question  of  principle,  while  actual 
suffering  was  yet  afar  off,  they  raised  their  flag  against  a  power,  to 
which,  for  purposes  of  foreign  conquest  and  subjugation,  Rome, 
in  the  height  of  her  glory,  is  not  to  be  compared  ;  a  power  which 
has  dotted  over  the  surface  of  the  whole  globe  with  her  posses- 
sions and  military  posts,  whose  morning  drum-beat,  following  the 
sun,  and  keeping  company  with  the  hours,  circles  the  earth  with 
one  continuous  and  unbroken  strain  of  the  martial  airs  of  England. 

[From    The  Preudential  Protest,  a  speech  delivered  in  the  Senate  of  the 
United  States,  May  7,  1834.     IVorks,  vol.  iv,  pp.  109,  no.] 


AMERICAN  INTEREST  IN   REPUBLICAN  GOVERNMENT 

The  undersigned  will  first  observe,  that  the  President  is  per- 
suaded his  Majesty  the  Emperor  of  Austria  does  not  think  that 
the  government  of  the  United  States  ought  to  view  with  uncon- 
cern the  extraordinary  events  which  have  occurred,  not  only  i.; 
his  dominions,  but  in  many  other  parts  of  Europe,  since  February, 
1848.  The  government  and  people  of  the  United  States,  like 
other  intelligent  governments  and  communities,  take  a  lively 
interest  in  the  movements  and  the  events  of  this  remarkable  age, 
in  whatever  part  of  the  world  they  may  be  exhibited.  But  the 
interest  taken  by  the  United  States  in  those  events  has  not  pro- 
ceeded from  any  disposition  to  depart  from  that  neutrality  toward 
foreign  powers,  which  is  among  the  deepest  principles  and  the 
most  cherished  traditions  of  the  political  history  of  the  Union. 
It  has  been  the  necessary  effect  of  the  unexampled  character  of 
the  events  themselves,  which  could  not  fail  to  arrest  the  attention 
of  the  contemporary  world,  as  they  will  doubtless  fill  a  memorable 
page  in  history. 

But  the  undersigned  goes  further,  and  freely  rJmits  that,  in 
proportion  as  these  extraordinary  events  appea.^-d  tc  have  their 
origin  in  those  great  ideas  of  responsible  and  popular  government, 
on  which    the  American    constitutions    themselves    are   wholly 


•ftmmmis 


memma 


Ii6 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


founded,  they  could  not  but  command  the  warm  sympathy  of 
the  people  of  this  country.    Well-known  circumstances  in  their 
history,  indeed  their  whole  history,  have  made  them  the  repre- 
sentatives of  purely  popular  principles  of  government.      In  this 
light  they  now  stand  before  the  world.    They  could  not,  if  they 
would,  conceal  their  character,  their  condition,  or  their  destiny. 
They  could  not,  if  they  so  desired,  shut  out  from  the  view  of  man- 
kind the  causes  which  have  placed  them,  in  so  short  a  national 
career,  in  the  station  which  they  now  hold  among  the  civilized 
states  of  the  world.    They  could  not,  if  they  desired  it,  suppress 
either  the  thoughts  or  the  hopes  which  arise  in  men's  minds,  in 
other  countries,  from  contemplating  their  successful  example  of 
free  government.    That  very  intelligent  and  distinguished  person- 
age, the  Emperor  Joseph   the  Second,  was  among  the  first  to 
discern  this  necessary  consequence  of  the  American  Revolution 
on  the  sentiments  and  opinions  of  the  people  of  Europe.     In 
a  letter  to- his  ministc'  in  the  Netherlands  in  1787,  he  observes, 
that  "  it  is  remarkable  that  France,  by  the  assistance  which  she 
afforded   to   the  Americans,  gave  birth  to  reflections  on  free- 
dom."   This  fact,  which  the  sagacity  of  that  monarch  perceived 
at  so  early  a  day,  is  now  known  and  admitted  by  intelligent 
powers  all  over  the  world.    True,  indeed,  it  is,  that  the  p.»..r- 
lence  on  the  other  continent  of  sentiments  favorable  to  republican 
liberty  is  the  result  of  the  reaction  of  America  upon  Europe ;  and 
the  source  and  centre  of  this  reaction  has  doubtless  been,  and 
now  is,  in  these  United  States. 

The  position  thus  belonging  to  the  United  States  is  a  fact  as 
inseparable  from  their  history,  their  constitutional  organization, 
and  their  character,  as  the  opposite  position  of  the  powers  com- 
posing the  European  alliance  is  from  the  history  and  constitutional 
organization  of  the  government  of  those  powers.  The  sovereigns 
who  form  that  alliance  have  m^.  ci.frequently  felt  it  their  right  to 
interfere  with  the  political  mo*  c, v.--  its  of  foreign  states  ;  and  have, 
in 'their  manifestoes  and  deHar  :^  :,  Jenounced  the  popular  ideas 
of  the  age  in  terms  so  compreh'ni^e  as  of  necessity  to  include 
the  United  States,  and  their  forms  uf  government.  It  is  well 
known  that  one  of  the  leading  principles  announced  by  the  allied  sov- 
ereigns, after  the  restoration  of  the  Bourbons,  is,  that  all  popular 


I' 


''-:.^i 


DANIEL    WEBSTER 


117 


ynipathy  of 
:es  in  their 
I  the  repre- 
it.      In  this 

not,  if  they 
leir  destiny, 
iew  of  man- 
t  a  national 
the  civilized 

it,  suppress 
I's  minds,  in 

example  of 
>hed  person- 

the  first  to 
\  Revolution 
Europe.  In 
he  observes, 
:e  which  she 
jns  on  free- 
ch  perceived 
»y  intelligent 
.t  the  piv;.-"- 
to  republican 
Europe ;  and 
SB  been,  and 

s  is  a  fact  as 
organization, 
powers  com- 
constitutional 
he  sovereigns 
their  right  to 
;s ;  and  have, 
popular  ideas 
ity  to  include 
t.  It  is  well 
the  allied  sov- 
lat  all  popular 


or  constitutional  rights  are  holden  no  otherwise  than  as  grants  and 
indulgences  from  crowned  heads.  "  Useful  and  necessary  changes 
in  legislation  and  administration,"  says  the  Laybach  Circular  of 
May,  1821,  "ought  only  to  emanate  from  the  free  will  and  intelli- 
gent conviction  of  those  whom  God  has  rendered  responsible  for 
power ;  all  that  deviates  from  this  line  necessarily  leads  to  disorder, 
commotions,  and  evils  far  more  insufferable  than  those  which  they 
pretend  to  remedy.".  And  his  late  Austrian  Majesty,  Francis  the 
First,  is  reported  to  have  declared,  in  an  address  to  the  Hun- 
garian Diet,  in  1820,  that  "the  whole  world  had  become  foolish, 
and,  leaving  their  ancient  laws,  were  in  search  of  imaginary  consti- 
tutions." These  declarations  amount  to  nothing  less  than  a  denial 
of  the  lawfulness  of  the  origin  of  the  government  of  the  United 
States,  since  it  is  certain  that  that  government  was  established  in 
consequence  of  a  change  which  did  not  proceed  from  thrones,  or 
the  permission  of  crowned  heads.  But  the  government  of  the 
United  States  heard  these  denunciations  of  its  fundamental  princi- 
ples without  remonstrance,  or  the  disturbance  of  its  equanimity. 
This  was  thirty  years  ago. 

The  power  of  this  republic,  at  the  present  moment,  is  spread 
over  a  region  one  of  the  richest  and  most  fertile  on  \he  globe,  and 
of  an  extent  in  comparison  with  which  the  possessions  of  the  house 
of  Hapsburg  are  but  as  a  patch  on  the  earth's  surface.  Its  popu- 
lation, already  twenty-five  millions,  will  exceed  that  of  rhe  Austrian 
empire  within  the  period  during  which  it  may  be  hoped  that  Mr. 
HUlsemann  may  yet  remain  in  the  honorable  discharge  of  his 
duties  to  his  government.  Its  navigation  and  commerce  are 
hardly  exceeded  by  the  oldest  and  most  commercial  nations ;  its 
maritime  means  and  its  maritime  power  may  be  seen  by  Austria 
herself,  in  all  seas  where  she  has  ports,  as  well  as  they  may  be 
seen,  also,  in  all  other  quarters  of  the  globe.  Life,  libert.;,  prop- 
erty, and  all  personal  rights,  are  amply  secured  to  all  citizens,  and 
protected  by  just  and  stable  laws ;  find  credit,  public  and  private, 
is  as  well  established  as  in  any  government  of  Continental  Europe ; 
and  the  country,  in  all  its  interests  and  concerns,  partakes  most 
largely  in  all  the  improvements  and  progress  which  distinguis^i  the 
age.  Certainly,  the  United  States  may  be  pardoned,  even  by  (hose 
who  profess  adherence  to  the  principle  of  absolute  government,  if 


i 
I 


■'-A—  ~ 


!■  'afa'MMia'i '  ^  jt^iiiMte  JiBiiW  III 


Il8 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


they  entertain  an  ardent  affection  for  those  popular  forms  of  politi- 
cal organization  whicli  have  so  rapidly  advanced  their  own  pros- 
perity and  hapjiiness,  and  enabled  them,  in  so  short  a  period,  to 
bring  their  country,  and  the  hemisphere  to  which  it  belongs,  lo  the 
notice  and  respectful  regard,  not  to  say  tne  admiration,  of  the 
civilized  world.  Nevertheless,  the  United  States  have  abstained,  at 
all  times,  from  acts  of  interference  with  the  political  changes  of 
Europe.  They  cannot,  however,  fail  to  cherish  always  a  lively  inter- 
est in  the  fortunes  of  nations  struggling  for  institutions  like  their  own. 
But  this  sympathy,  so  far  from  being  necessarily  a  hostile  feeling 
toward  any  of  the  parties  to  these  great  national  struggles,  is  quite 
consistent  with  amicable  relations  with  them  all.  The  Hungarian 
people  are  three  or  four  times  as  numerous  as  the  inhabitants  of 
these  United  States  were  when  the  American  Revolution  broke 
out.  They  possess,  in  a  distinct  language,  and  in  other  respects, 
important  elements  of  a  separate  nationality,  which  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  race  in  this  country  did  not  possess;  and  if  the  United 
States  wish  success  ;  >  countries  contending  for  popular  constitu- 
tions and  national  independence,  it  is  only  because  they  regard 
such  constitutions  and  such  national  independence,  not  as  imagi- 
nary, but  as  real  blessings.  They  claim  no  right,  however,  to  take 
part  in  the  struggles  of  foreign  powers  in  order  to  promote  these 
ends.  It  is  only  in  defence  of  his  own  government,  and  its  prin- 
ciples and  character,  that  the  undersigned  has  now  expressed 
himself  on  this  subject.  But  when  the  people  of  the  United  States 
behold  the  people  of  foreign  countries,  without  any  such  interfer- 
ence, spontaneously  moving  toward  the  adoption  of  institutions 
like  their  own,  it  surely  cannot  be  expected  of  them  to  remain 
wholly  indifferent  spectators. 

[From  a  letter  addressed,  as  Secretary  of  State,  Dec.  21,  1850,  to  the 
Chevalier  HUlsemann,  Charg^  d' Affaires  of  the  Emperor  of  Austria.  Works, 
vol.  vi,  pp.  494-497.] 


IS  of  politi- 

own  pros- 
1  period,  to 
ongs,  lo  the 
ion,  of  the 
bstained,  at 
changes  of 
lively  inter- 
e  their  own. 
stile  feeling 
;Ies,  is  quite 

Hungarian 
labitants  of 
jtion  broke 
er  respects, 

the  Anglo- 
the  United 
ar  constitu- 
they  regard 
ot  as  imagi- 
iver,  to  take 
)mote  these 
md  its  prin- 
1  expressed 
nited  States 
ch  interfer- 

institutions 
[I  to  remain 


1850,  to  the 
tria.     Works, 


WASHINGTON    IRVING  ; 

[Washington  Irving  was  born  in  New  York  City,  April  3,  1783,  and  died  at 
Tarrytown,  N.Y.,  Nov.  28,  1859.  Irving  spent  his  early  years  in  New  York 
City.  In  1804  he  went  abroad  for  his  health,  travelling  in  France,  Italy,  and 
Kngland.  Returning  in  1806,  he  resumed  the  study  of  law  and  was  admitted 
to  the  bar,  hut  dirl  not  practise  his  profession.  In  1815  he  went  abroad  again 
and  passed  five  years  in  England,  six  years  in  travelling  on  the  continent,  and 
three  years  in  Spain.  In  1829  he  was  appointed  Secretary  of  Legation  at  the 
Court  of  St.  James,  and  remained  in  England  until  1832,  when  he  returned  to 
New  York.  From  1842  to  1846  he  was  minister  to  Spain.  The  rest  of  his 
life  was  happily  spent  in  New  York  and  at  Sunnyside,  his  little  place  on  the 
lianks  of  the  Hudson  at  Tarrytown. 

In  1802  Irving  contributed  to  the  Morning  Chronicle  a  series  of  letters, 
signed  Jonathan  Oldstyle,  in  the  manner  of  the  TatUr  and  Spectator.  In  1807 
he  joined  his  brother  and  Paulding  in  the  production  of  Salmagundi,  a  semi- 
monthly publication,  also  modelled  on  the  Spectator  and  its  followers.  In  1809 
appeared  the  satirical  History  of  New  York,  but  it  was  not  until  ten  years 
later  that  reverses  of  fortune  determined  Irving  to  choose  the  profession  of 
literature.  The  Sketch-Bcok  (1819-20)  achieved  a  remarkable  success  both 
at  home  and  abroad.  It  was  followed  by  Bracebridge  Hall  (1822),  Tales  of 
a  Traveller  (1824),  and,  as  fruits  of  his  first  residence  in  Spain,  Life  and 
Voyages  of  Columbus  (1828),  The  Conq.  t  of  Granada  (1829),  and  The 
Alhambra  (1832).  During  the  ten  years  tliat  elapsed  before  he  went  to  Spain 
for  the  second  time,  he  published  Crayon  Miscellanies  (^\%l^,  Astoria  (1836), 
and  Adventures  of  Captain  Bonneville  (1837).  His  later  works  were  largely 
biographical  and  historical:  Oliver  Goldsmith  (1849),  Mahomet  and  his  Suc- 
cessors {\%if)),  Wolfert's  Roost  (1855),  and  Life  of  Washington  (1855-59). 
With  great  generosity  he  abandoned  to  Prescott  his  life-long  project  of  writing 
the  history  of  the  conquest  of  Mexico. 

The  text  of  the  extracts  from  Irving  is,  with  the  permission  of  G.  P.  Put- 
nam's Suns,  the  publishers,  that  of  the  author's  revised  edition.] 

It  is  a  strange  fact  that  the  English  language  has  no  exact  word 
for  a  thing  frequent  in  English  literarture,  one  which  we  are  forced 
to  call  by  an  inadequate  and  inaccurate  French  phrase  —  vers  de 
societe,  a  kind  of  poetry  more  abundantly  cultivated  in  Great 
Britain  and  the  United  States  than  in  France.  Mr.  Austin  Dob- 
son  has  proposed  to  adopt  Cowper's  suggestion, /jm/7/ar  verse, 
but  this  is  perhaps  not  comprehensive  enough.    The  late  Frederick 

119 


^•(vV 


t^ 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


Locker-Lampson,  selecting  the  most  successful  poems  of  this  kind, 
entitled  his  enchanting  anthology  Lyra  Ekgantiarum.  But  what- 
ever the  name  we  bestow  upon  it,  the  thing  itself  is  readily  to 
be  recognized ;  it  is  verse  such  as  Pope  often  wrote,  and  Prior, 
and  Praed,  such  as  Holmes  delighted  us  with  in  our  own  day, 
and  Mr.  Locker-Lampson,  and  Mr.  Austin  Dobson.  It  is  the 
poetry  of  the  man  of  the  world,  who  has  a  heart,  no  doubt,  but 
who  does  not  wear  it  on  his  sleeve ;  it  is  brief  and  brilliant  and 
buoyant ;  and  it  is  in  verse  almost  the  exact  equivalent  of  the 
prose  essay  of  Steele  and  Addison. 

A  comparison  of  the  Lyra  EUgantiarum  of  Mr.  Locker-Laiftp- 
son  with  an  equally  skilfully  edited  volume,  the  Eighteenth  Cen- 
tury Essays  of  Mr.  Austin  Dobson,  reveals  the  fact  that  the  prose 
form  which  we  are  forced  to  call  the  eighteenth  century  essay  is  a 
literary  ^^«r^  quite  as  distinct  as  the  verse  form  which  we  are  forced 
to  -all  vers  de  societe.  Neither  form  has  yet  a  name  of  its  own,  but 
each  has  an  independent  existence.  Essay  is  a  word  of  wide 
meaning ;  it  may  include  a  mere  medley  of  pithy  reflections  by 
Montaigne  or  Bacon  or  Emerson,  and  it  may  designate  also  an 
elaborate  exhibition  of  quaint  humor  by  Lamb,  or  an  ebulli- 
tion of  pungent  wit  by  Lowell.  The  eighteenth  century  essay, 
as  Steele  devised  it  and  as  Addison  improved  it,  owed  some- 
thing to  Walton's  Conversations,  something  to  \a  Bruyfere's 
Characters,  and  something  to  Horace's  Epistles,  but  despite  these 
predecessors,  the  papers  of  the  Tatler  and  the  Spectator  were 
essentially  original  in  form.  No  one  had  ever  before  sketched 
men  and  manners  from  just  that  point  of  view,  and  with  just  that 
easy  touch.  What  Steele  and  Addison  had  done  spontaneously 
and  naturally,  many  another  writer  coming  after  them  laboriously 
reproduced,  taking  their  papers  as  his  pattern,  and  imitating  his 
model  as  closely  as  he  could.  Dr.  Johnson,  for  example,  toiled 
mightily  to  repeat  the  success  of  the  Spectator,  and  failed  lament- 
ably; as  Goldsmith  suggested,  Johnson  could  not  help  making 
little  fishes  talk  like  whales.  Goldsmith  himself  was  the  sole  heir 
of  Steele  and  Addison ;  and  in  his  hands  the  eighteenth  century 
essay  was  as  free,  as  graceful,  and  as  natural  as  in  theirs. 

Irving  is  often  accused  of  being  a  mere  copyist  of  Goldsmith. 
The  charge  is  unjust  and  absurd.    Irving  was  no  more  an  imitator 


tii 


■  I  ii  innra  i  i-wrwnMiri^wtnriiiiii?^  - 


WASHINGTON  IRVING 


121 


>f  this  kind, 

But  what- 

i  readily  to 

,  and  Prior, 

r  own  day. 

It  is  the 

doubt,  but 

)rilliant  and 

ilent  of  the 

cker-Lartip- 
xteenth  Cen- 
it  the  prose 
ry  essay  is  a 
e  are  forced 
its  own,  but 
)rd  of  wide 
iflections  by 
late  also  an 
r  an  ebulK- 
ntury  essay, 
owed  some- 
a   Bruy^re's 
lespite  these 
tctator  were 
re  sketched 
ith  just  that 
)ontaneously 
I  laboriously 
mitating  his 
imple,  toiled 
iled  lament- 
lelp  making 
he  sole  heir 
:nth  century 
rs. 

Goldsmith. 
;  an  imitator 


of  Goldsmith  than  Goldsmith  was  an  imitator  of  Steele  and  Addi- 
son. He  had  a  kindred  talent  with  theirs  and  he  was  the  heir  of 
their  tradition.  The  eighteenth  century  essay  was  the  form  in  which 
he  expressed  himself  most  easily ;  and  for  him  to  have  sought 
another  mode  would  have  been  to  thwart  his  natural  inclination. 
He  is  the  nineteenth  century  writer  who  has  possessed  most  of  the 
qualities  that  must  combine  to  give  the  eighteenth  century  essay 
its  essential  charm ;  and  he  is  the  only  nineteenth  century  writer 
wlio  found  in  the  eighteenth  century  essay  a  form  wholly  satis- 
factory and  exactly  suited  to  his  own  development.  The  sketches 
of  Geoffrey  Crayon  are  as  inevitable  a  revelation  of  the  author  as 
are  the  lucubrations  of  Isaac  Bickerstaff  or  the  Chinese  letters  of 
the  Citizen  of  the  World,  and  they  show  "  that  happy  mingling  of 
the  lively  and  severe,  which  Johnson  envied  but  could  not  emulate  " 
—  to  quote  from  Mr.  Austin  Dobson.  "  That  charm  of  simplicity 
and  grace,  of  kindliness  and  gentle  humor,  which,"  so  Mr.  Dobson 
tells  us  in  another  place,  "we  recognize  as  Goldsmith's  special 
property,"  seem  somehow  to  have  passed  by  inheritance  to  Irving 
as  next  of  kin. 

The  eighteenth  century  essay  is  a  definite  form  —  but  it  con- 
tained also  the  beginnings  of  several  other  forms.  It  is  not  fan- 
tastic to  find  in  the  Spectator  the  precursor  of  the  modern  magazine, 
with  its  varied  table  of  contents,  since  we  can  pick  out  from  its 
pages  not  only  the  brisk  disquisition  upon  the  topics  of  the  time, 
but  also  the  character  sketch,  the  short  story,  the  theatrical  criti- 
cism, the  book-review,  the  obituary  notice,  and  even  the  serial 
story,  —  for  what  else  is  the  succession  of  papers  in  which  Sir 
Roger  de  Coverley  appears  and  reappears?  Midway  between 
the  modern  magazine  and  the  Spectator  stands  the  Sketch-Book  ; 
and  the  first  of  the  eight  numbers  in  which  it  was  originally  issued 
had  ample  variety,  containing,  as  they  did,  papers  as  dissimilar  as  the 
Author's  Account  of  Himself,  the  Voyage,  the  essay  on  Roscoe,  the 
two  tales  of  the  Wife  and  Rip  Van  Winkle,  and  the  still  unheeded 
warning  to  English  Writers  on  America. 

For  nothing  is  the  American  magazine  now  more  noted  than  for 
its  short  stories,  and  one  of  the  tales  in  the  first  number  of  the 
Sketch- Book  has  been  the  parent  of  an  innumerable  progeny.  Rip 
Van  Winkle  is  not  only  one  of  the  best  short  stories  in  our  Ian- 


I  as 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


guage  ;  it  is  also  the  earliest  attempt  in  America  at  local  fiction. 
Rip  Van  Winkle  and  the  Legend  of  Sleepy  Hollow  (both  contained 
in  the  Sketch- Book,  issued  in  1819-20)  showed  how  the  realities 
of  our  life  here  could  best  be  made  available  in  romance.  In  these 
stories  Irving  set  an  example  to  the  New  E:ngland  group  of  story- 
tellers and  to  the  later  men  and  women  who  have  since  explained 
to  us  also  the  South  and  the  West  by  frank  and  direct  tales  of 
the  way  people  live  in  the  one  section  and  the  other.  Irving  was 
first  in  the  ficid  now  cultivated  so  carefully  by  Miss  Jewett  and 
Miss  Wilkins,  by  Mr.  Cable,  Mr.  Harris,  and  Mr.  Page,  by  Mr. 
Garland  and  Mr.  Wistar. 

On  other  authors  also  has  Irving's  influence  made  itself  felt, — 
on  Dickens,  for  one,  as  may  be  detected  at  once  by  a  comparison 
of  the  Dingley  Dell  chapters  of  the  Pickwick  Papers,  with  the  cor- 
responding humorously  realistic  pages  of  the  Sketch-Book  and 
Bracebridge  Hall;  and  for  another,  on  Longfellow,  who  came 
under  the.  pensive  and  romantic  charm  of  Irving's  earlier  writ- 
ings, and  who  took  Irving's  prose  as  the  model  of  his  own  in  Outre 
Mer  and  Kavanagh.  Hawthorne  also  and  Poe  followed  in  Irving's 
footsteps,  and  their  short  stories  often  disclose  their  indebtedness 
to  him.  Scott  appreciated  highly  all  that  Irving  wrote,  and  more 
especially  the  tales  in  which  the  eerie  was  adroitly  fused  with  the 
ironic  ;  and  in  his  paper  On  the  Supernatural  in  Fictitious  Com- 
position he  praised  the  ludicrous  sketch  of  The  Bold  Dragoon  as 
the  only  instance  of  the  fantastic  then  to  be  found  in  the  English 
language.  The  one  story  of  this  sort  that  Scott  himself  wrote, 
Wandering  Willie's  Tale  (introdu<:ed  into  Redgauntlet),  appeared 
about  the  same  time  as  the  Tales  of  a  Traveller,  and  later  there- 
fore than  Irving's  ghostly  stories.  "  At  any  rate,"  Irving  wrote  to 
a  friend,  "  I  have  the  merit  of  adopting  a  line  for  myself,  instead 
of  following  others." 

Perhaps  there  is  no  better  test  of  originality  and  power  than 
this,  —  that  an  author's  influence  upon  his  fellow-craftsmen  shall 
both  broaden  and  endure.  In  the  variegated  garden  of  American 
story-telling  "all  can  grow  the  flower  now,  for  all  have  got  the 
seed  ".;  but  it  was  Irving  who  showed  how  the  soil  should  be  culti- 
vated and  who  brought  the  first  blooms  to  perfection.  His  art 
seems  so  simple,  his  attitude  is  so  modest,  the  man  himself  is  so 


wftwaiwinnirTnifrmiir'"^""  i—i--'-^-- 


'  .itMtft«iui^  wi.iw ji'v'nw 


wam 


local  fiction, 
th  contained 
the  realities 
e.  In  these 
lup  of  story- 
ce  explained 
rect  tales  of 
Irving  was 
1  Jewett  and 
Page,  by  Mr. 

itself  felt, — 
I  comparison 
with  the  cor- 
di-Book  and 
r,  who  came 

earlier  writ- 
own  in  Outre 
ed  in  Irving's 
indebtedness 
te,  and  more 
ised  with  the 
titioHS  Com- 
'  Dragoon  as 
1  the  English 
imself  wrote, 
r/),  appeared 

later  there- 
ving  wrote  to 
yself,  instead 

1  power  than 
aftsmen  shall 
of  American 
have  got  the 
ould  be  culti- 
ion.  His  art 
himself  is  so 


WASHINGTON  IRVING 


123 


unpretending  and  unaffected,  that  he  has  not  yet  received  full 
credit  for  his  very  real  originality.  And  not  only  in  literature  does 
his  influence  abide,  but  in  the  life  of  the  city  he  was  born  in.  It 
was  Irving  who  invented  the  Knickerbocker  legeml  and  who  im- 
posed it  upon  us,  "  making  it  out  of  whole  cloth,"  as  the  phrase  is, 
—  weaving  it  in  the  loom  of  his  own  playful  imagination.  It  was 
Irving  again  who  flung  the  entrancing  veil  of  romance  over  the 
banks  of  the  Hudsort.  To  the  end  of  time  will  the  Catskills  be 
Rip  Van  Winkle's  country,  and  New  York  the  town  of  the  Knicker- 
bockers. 

It  is  not  by  his  elaborately  wrought  biographies  that  Irving  is  to 
survive,  not  by  the  lives  of  Columbus  and  of  Washington,  admir- 
able as  these  are,  but  by  the  earlier  miscellanies,  developed,  all  of 
them,  out  of  the  eighteenth  century  es^ay,  — the  Skekh-Book, 
linuebrUge  Hall,  the  Tales  of  a  Traveller,  and  the  Alhambra 
(that  Spanish  ".Sketch- Hook,"  as  Prescott  aptly  called  it).  It  is 
in  these  that  Irving  is  most  at  home  j  in  these  he  is  doing  the  work 
he  did  best ;  anil  in  these  his  style  is  seen  at  its  finest.  If  the 
style  is  the  man,  then  is  Irving  transparently  revealed  in  these 
volumes,  for  his  writing  had  always  the  simplicity  and  the  sincerity 
of  his  own  character.  But  though  it  may  seem  careless,  it  has 
more  art  than  the  casual  reader  may  suspect.  It  has  the  rare 
merit  of  combining  vivacity  and  repose.  As  Poe  pointed  out, 
Irving's  style  is  excellent  even  though  his  diction  is  not  always 
impeccable;  and  we  remember  that  Addison  also  has  been  the 
prey  of  the  rigid  grammarians  who  think  that  man  was  made  for 
syntax.  The  happy  phrase  is  frequent  in  Irving's  sketches,  and 
the  felicitous  adjective  abounds;  —  yet  we  have  to  admit  that  his 
leisurely  and  old-fashioned  paragraphs  do  not  appeal  to  those  who 
fail  to  find  beauty  anywhere  but  in  the  verbal  mosaics  of  certain 
latterday  stylists.  Irving's  pages  are  wholesome  always ;  they  are 
as  genuine  as  they  are  graceful,  as  natural  as  they  are  charming ; 
and  perhaps  they  are  most  relished-  by  those  who  best  know  the 
kindred  qualities  of  Steele  and  of  Goldsmith, 

Brander  Matthews 


124 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


WOUTER  VAN  TWILLER 


! 


OP  THK  RENOWNEI>  WOUTER  VAN  TWII.I.ER,  HIS  UNPAKALLELED 
VIRTUES  — AS  LIKKWISE  HIS  UNUTTERABLE  WISDOM  IN  THE  LAW- 
CASE  OK  WANIJLK  SCHOONHOVEN  AND  BARENT  BI.EECKER  —  AND 
THE  (iREAT  ADMIRATION  OF  THE   PUBLIC   THEREAT 

Grievous  and  very  much  to  be  commiserated  is  the  task  of  the 
feeling  historian,  who  writes  the  history  of  his  native  land.  If  it 
fall  to  his  lot  to  be  the  recorder  of  calamity  or  crime,  the  mourn- 
ful page  is  watered  with  his  tears;  nor  can  he  recall  the  most 
prosperous  and  blissful  era,  without  a  melancholy  sigh  at  the 
reflection  that  it  has  passed  away  forever !  I  know  not  whether 
it  be  owing  to  an  immoderate  love  for  the  simplicity  of  former 
times,  or  to  that  certain  tenderness  of  heart  incident  to  all  senti- 
mental historians ;  but  I  candidly  confess  that  I  cannot  look  back 
on  the  happier  days  of  our  city,  which  I  now  describe,  without 
great  dejection  of  spirit.  With  faltering  hand  do  I  withdraw  the 
curtain  of  oblivion,  that  veils  the  modest  merit  of  our  venerable 
ancestors,  and  as  their  figures  rise  to  my  mental  vision,  humble 
myself  before  their  mighty  shades. 

Such  are  my  feelings  when  I  revisit  the  family  mansion  of  the 
Knickerbockers,  and  spend  a  lonely  hour  in  the  chamber  where 
hang  the  portraits  of  my  forefathers,  shrouded  in  dust,  like  the 
forms  they  represent.  With  pious  reverence  do  I  gaze  on  the 
countenances  of  those  renowned  burghers,  who  have  preceded  me 
in  the  steady  march  of  existence,  —  whose  sober  and  temperate 
blood  now  meanders  through  my  veins,  flowing  slower  and  slower 
in  its  feeble  conduits,  until  its  current  shall  soon  be  stopped  for- 
ever ! 

These,  I  say  to  myself,  are  but  frail  memorials  of  the  mighty 
men  who  flourished  in  the  days  of  the  patriarchs ;  but  who,  alas, 
have  long  since  mouldered  in  that  tomb  towards  which  my  steps 
are  insensibly  and  irresistibly  hastening  !  As  I  pace  the  darkened 
chamber  and  lose  myself  in  melancholy  musings,  the  shadowy 
images  around  me  almost  seem  to  steal  once  more  into  existence, 
—  their  countenances  to  assume  the  animation  of  life,  —  their  eyes 
to  pursue  me  in  every  movement !     Carried  away  by  the  delusions 


WASHINGTON  IK VI NO 


125 


'AMAtLBLBD 
I  THE  LAW- 
:KKK  —  AND 


task  of  the 
land.  If  it 
the  mourn- 
11  the  most 
igh  at  the 
not  whether 
y  of  former 
:o  all  senti- 
it  look  back 
Ibc,  without 
'ithdraw  the 
r  venerable 
ion,  humble 

jsion  of  the 
mber  where 
ust,  like  the 
raze  on  the 
•receded  me 
1  temperate 
and  slower 
.topped  for- 

the  mighty 
ut  who,  alas, 
ich  my  steps 
he  darkened 
he  shadowy 
:o  existence, 
— their  eyes 
he  delusions 


of  fancy,  I  almost  imagine  myself  surrounded  by  the  shades  of  the 
departed,  and  holding  sweet  converse  with  the  worthies  of  anticj- 
uity  1  Ah,  hapless  Diedrich  I  born  in  a  degenerate  age,  aban- 
doned to  the  buffetings  of  fortunes,  —  a  stranger  and  a  weary 
pilgrim  in  thy  native  land, —  blest  with  no  weeping  wife,  nor 
family  of  helpless  children,  but  doomed  to  wander  neglected 
through  those  crowded  streets,  and  elbowed  by  foreign  upstarts 
from  those  fair  abodes  where  once  thine  ancestors  held  sover- 
eign empire  ! 

Let  me  not,  however,  lose  the  historian  in  the  man,  nor  suffer 
the  doting  recollections  of  age  to  overcome  me,  while  dwelling 
with  fond  garrulity  on  the  virtuous  days  of  the  patriarchs,  —  on 
those  sweet  days  of  simplicity  and  ease,  which  nevermore  will 
dawn  on  the  lovely  island  of  Mannahata. 

These  melancholy  reflections  have  been  forced  from  me  by  the 
growing  wealth  and  importance  of  New  Amsterdam,  which,  I 
plainly  perceive,  are  to  involve  it  in  all  kinds  of  perils  and  dis- 
asters. Already,  as  I  observed  at  the  close  of  my  last  book,  they 
had  awakened  the  attentions  of  the  mother-country.  The  usual 
mark  of  protection  shown  by  mother-countries  to  wealthy  colonies 
was  forthwith  manifested  ;  a  governor  being  sent  out  to  rule  over 
the  province,  and  squeeze  out  of  it  as  much  revenue  as  possible. 
The  arrival  of  a  governor  of  course  put  an  end  to  the  protectorate 
of  Oloffe  the  Dreamer.  He  appears,  however,  to  have  dreamt  to 
some  purpose  during  his  sway,  as  we  find  him  afterwards  living  as 
a  patroon  on  a  great  landed  estate  on  the  banks  of  the  Hudson ; 
having  virtually  forfeited  all  right  to  his  ancient  appiilation  of 
Kortlandt  or  Lackland. 

It  was  in  the  year  of  our  Lord  1629  that  Mynheer  Wouter  Van 
Twiller  was  appointed  governor  of  the  province  of  Nieuw  Neder- 
landts,  under  the  commission  and  control  of  their  High  Might- 
inesses the  Lords  States  General  of  the  United  Netheriands,  and 
the  privileged  West  India  Company. 

This  renowned  old  gentleman  arrived  at  New  Amsterdam  in  the 
merry  month  of  June,  the  sweetest  month  in  all  the  year ;  when 
clan  Apollo  seems  to  dance  up  the  transparent  firmament,  —  when 
the  robin,  the  thrush,  and  a  thousand  other  wanton  songsters,  make 
the  woods  to  resound  with  amorous  ditties,  and  the  luxurious  little 


I 


126 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


it 


^11 


l)ol)lincon  revels  among  the  clover  blossoms  of  the  meadows,  — all 
which  happy  coincidence  pcrsnadcti  the  old  <:ames  of  New  Amster- 
dam, who  were  Hkilled  in  the  art  of  foretelling  events,  that  this  was 
to  be  a  hajjpy  and  prosperous  administration. 

■Phe  renowned  Woutcr  (or  Walter)  Van  Twiller  was  descended 
from  a  long  line  of  Dutch  burgomasters,  who  had  successively 
dozed  away  their  lives,  and  grown  fat  upon  the  bench  of  nuigistracy 
in  Rotterdam  ;  and  who  had  comported  themselves  with  such 
singular  wisdom  and  propriety,  tliat  they  were  never  either  heard 
or  talked  of—  which,  next  to  being  universally  applauded,  should 
be  the  object  of  ambition  of  all  magistrates  and  rulers.  There  are 
two  opposite  ways  by  whic'.i  some  men  make  a  figure  in  the  worUl : 
one,  by  talking  faster  than  they  think,  and  the  other,  by  holding 
their  tongues  and  not  thinking  al  all.  By  the  first,  many  a  smat- 
terer  ac(iuires  the  reputation  of  a  man  of  quick  parts;  by  the 
other,  many  a  dunderpate,  like  the  owl,  the  stupidest  of  birds, 
comes  to  be  considered  the  very  type  of  wisdom.  This,  by  the 
way,  is  a  casual  remark,  which  I  would  not,  for  the  imiverse,  have 
it  thought  I  apply  to  (lovernor  Van  Twiller.  It  is  true  he  was  a 
man  shut  up  within  himself,  like  an  oyster,  and  rarely  spoke,  except 
in  monosyllables  ;  but  then  it  was  allowed  he  seldom  saiti  a  ftwlish 
thing.  So  invi  'ble  was  his  gravity  that  he  was  never  known  to 
laugh  or  eve;  mile  through  the  whole  course  of  a  long  and 

prosperous  li(  y,  if  a  joke  were  uttered  in  his  presence,  that 

set  light-minded  hearers  in  a  roar,  it  was  observed  to  throw  him 
into  a  state  of  perplexity.  Sometimes  he  would  deign  to  inquire 
into  the  matter,  and  when,  after  much  explanation,  the  joke  was 
made  as  plain  as  a  pikestaff,  he  would  continue  to  smoke  his  pii)e 
in  silence,  and  at  length,  knocking  out  the  ashes,  would  exclaim, 
"  Well !  I  see  nothing  in  all  that  to  laugh  about." 

With  all  his  reflective  habits,  he  never  made  up  his  mind  on 
a  subject.  His  adherents  accounted  for  this  by  the  astonishing 
magnitude  of  his  ideas.  He  conceived  every  subject  on  so  grand 
a  scale  that  he  had  not  room  in  his  heatl  to  turn  it  over  and 
examine  both  sides  of  it.  Certain  it  is,  that  if  any  matter  were 
propounded  to  him  on  which  ordinary  mortals  would  rashly 
determine  at  first  glance,  he  would  put  on  a  vague,  mysterious  look, 
shake  his  capacious  head,  smoke  some  time  in  profound  silence. 


vtmmmimmii  ^' 


im 


WASHINGTON  IK  VINO 


i«r 


(lows,  —  all 
ew  Ainster- 
uit  this  wuii 

descciuicd 
luccesHively 
magistracy 
witii  such 
itiicr  heard 
lied,  should 
There  are 
the  world  : 
by  holding 
any  a  sinat- 
ts;  by  the 
it  of  birds, 
rhis,  by  the 
iverse,  have 
le  he  was  a 
)okc,  except 
lid  a  foolish 
:r  known  to 
a  long  and 
esence,  that 
3  throw  him 
1  to  inquire 
he  joke  was 
oke  his  pii)e 
lid  exclaim, 

liis  mind  on 
astonishing 
on  so  grand 
it  over  and 
matter  were 
.fould  rashly 
iterious  look, 
und  silence. 


an<I  at  length  observe,  that  "  he  had  his  doubts  alnnit  the  matter  ;  " 
which  gained  him  the  rcinitation  of  a  man  slow  of  l)elief  and  not 
easily  im|)osed  ujjon.  Wiiat  is  more,  it  gained  him  a  lasting  name  ; 
for  to  this  habit  of  mind  has  been  attributed  his  surname  Twiller; 
whii;h  is  said  to  be  a  corruption  of  the  original  Twijllcr,  or,  in 
ph'.in  ICnglish,  Doubter. 

The  i)erson  of  this  illustrious  old  gentleman  was  formed  and 
proportioned,  as  though  it  had  been  moulded  by  the  hands  of 
some  cunning  Dutch  statuary,  as  a  model  of  majesty  and  lordly 
grandeur.  He  was  exactly  five  feet  six  inches  in  height,  and  six 
feet  five  inches  in  circumference.  His  head  waj  a  perfect  sphere, 
and  of  such  stupendous  dimensions,  that  dame  Nature,  with  all  her 
sex's  ingenuity,  would  have  been  puzzled  to  construct  a  neck 
capable  of  supporting  it;  wherefore  she  wisely  declined  the 
attempt,  and  settled  it  firmly  on  the  top  of  his  backbone,  just 
between  the  shoulders.  His  body  was  oblong  and  particularly 
capacious  at  bottom ;  which  was  wisely  ordered  by  Providence, 
seeing  that  he  was  a  man  of  sedentary  habits,  and  very  averse  to 
the  idle  labor  of  walking.  His  legs  were  short,  but  sturdy  in 
proi)orlion  to  the  weight  they  had  to  sustain  ;  so  that  when  erect 
he  had  not  a  little  the  appearance  of  a  beer-barrel  on  skids.  His 
face,  lit  infallible  index  of  the  mind,  presented  a  vast  expanse, 
unfuiTowed  by  any  of  those  lines  and  angles  which  disfigure  the 
human  countenance  with  what  is  termed  expression.  Two  small 
grey  eyes  twinkled  feebly  in  the  mi<lst,  like  two  stars  of  lesser 
magnitude  in  a  hazy  firmament ;  and  his  fiill-fed  cheeks,  which 
seemed  to  have  taken  toll  of  everything  that  went  into  his  mouth, 
were  curiously  mottled  and  streaked  with  dusky  red,  like  a  spitz- 
enberg  apple. 

His  habits  were  as  regular  as  his  person.  He  daily  took  his 
four  stated  meals,  appropriating  exactly  an  hour  to  each;  he 
smoked  and  doubted  eight  hours,  and  he  slept  the  remaining 
twelve  of  the  four-and-twenty.  Such  was  the  renowned  Wouter 
Van  Twiller,  —  a  true  philosopher,  for  his  mind  was  either  ele- 
vated above,  or  tranquilly  settled  below,  the  cares  and  perplexities  of 
this  world.  He  had  lived  in  it  for  years,  without  feeling  the  least 
curiosity  to  know  whether  the  sun  revolved  round  it,  or  it  round 
the  Sim ;   and  he  had  watched,  for  at  least  half  a  century,  the 


wmmam0^Z', 


t»^ 


128 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


smoke  curling  from  his  pipe  to  the  ceiUng,  without  once  troubling 
his  head  with  any  of  those  numerous  theories  by  which  a  philoKO- 
phtr  would  have  perplexed  his  brain,  in  accounting  for  its  rising 
above  the  surrounding  atmosphere. 

In  his  council  he  presided  with  great  state  and  solemnity.     He 
sat  in  a  huge  chair  of  solid  oak,  hewn  in  the  celebrated  forest  of 
the  Hague,  fabricated  by  an  experienced  timmerman  of  Amster- 
dam, and  curiously  carved  about  the  arms  and  feet,  into  exact 
imitations  of  gigantic   eagle's  claws.      Instead  of  a  sceptre,  he 
swayed  a  long  Turkish   pipe,  wrought   with  jasmin  and  amber, 
which  had  been  presented  to  a  stadtholder  of  Holland  at  the  con- 
clusion of  a  treaty  with  one  of  the  petty  Barbary  powers.     In  this 
stately  chair  would  he  sit,  and  this  magnificent   pipe  would   he 
smoke,  shaking  his  right  knee  with  a  constant  motion,  and  fixing 
his  eye  for  hours  together  upon  a  little  print  of  Amsterdam,  which 
hung  in  a  black  frame  against  th.    opposite  wall  of  the  council- 
chamber.     Nay,  it  has  even  been  siid,  that  when  any  deliberation 
of  extraordinary  length  and  intricacy  was  on  the  carpet,  the  re- 
nowned Wouter  would  shut  his  eyes  for  full  two  hours  at  a  time, 
that  he  might  not  be  disturbed  by  external  objects ;   and  at  such 
times  the  internal  commotion  of  his  mind  was  evinced  by  certain 
regular  guttural  sounds,  which  his  admirers  declared  were  merely 
the  noise  of  conflict,  made  by  his  contending  doubts  and  opinions. 
It  is  with  infinite  difficulty  I  have  been  enabled  to  collect  these 
biographical  anecdotes  of  the   great   man   under   consideration. 
The  facts  respecting  him  were  so  scattered  and  vague,  and  divers 
of  them  so  questionable  in  point  of  authenticity,  that  I  have  had 
to  give  up  the  search  after  many,  and  decline  the  admission  of 
still  more,  which  would  have  tended  to  heighten  the  coloring  of 

his  portrait. 

I  have  been  the  more  anxious  to  delineate  fully  the  person  and 
habits  of  Wouter  Van  Twiller,  from  the  consideration  that  he  was 
not  only  the  first,  but  also  the  best  governor  that  ever  presided 
over  this  ancient  and  respectable  province ;  and  so  tranciuil  and 
benevolent  was  his  reign,  that  I  do  not  find  throughout  the  whole 
of  it  a  single  instance  of  any  offender  being  brought  to  punish- 
ment, —  a  most  indubitable  sign  of  a  merciful  governor,  and  a  case 
unparalleled,  excepting  in  the  reign  of  the  illustrious  King  Log, 


««ati»Biwiiiiii«CMnsM«jilit»iiwij'M<w«a 


BK':'. 


WASHINGTON  IRVING 


troubling 

I  philo^o- 

its  rising 

tity.     He 
forest  of 
f  Amster- 
nto  exact 
:eptre,  he 
id  amber, 
t  the  con- 
.     In  this 
would   he 
and  fixing 
am,  which 
e  council- 
eliberation 
let,  the  re- 
al a  time, 
id  at  such 
by  certain 
ere  merely 
1  opinions. 
)llect  these 
isideration. 
and  divers 
have  had 
[mission  of 
coloring  of 

person  and 
that  he  was 
;r  presided 
ancjuil  and 
t  the  whole 

to  punish- 
, and  a  case 

King  Log, 


129 


from  whom,  it  is  hinted,  the  renowned  Van  Twiller  was  a  lineal 
descendant. 

The  very  outset  of  the  career  of  this  excellent  magistrate  was 
distinguished  by  an  example  of  legal  acumen,  that  gave  flattering 
presage  of  a  wise  and  ecjuitable  administration.  The  morning 
after  he  had  been  installed  in  office,  and  the  moment  that  he  was 
making  his  breakf  1st  from  a  prodigious  earthen  dish,  filled  with 
milk  and  Indian  pudding,  he  was  interrupted  by  the  appearance  of 
Wandle  Schoonhoven,  a  very  important  old  burgher  of  New 
Amsterdam,  who  complained  bitterly  of  one  Barent  Bleecker, 
inasmuch  as  he  refused  to  come  to  a  settlement  of  accounts, 
seeing  that  there  was  a  heavy  balance  in  favor  of  the  said  Wandle; 
Gc ,  ernor  Van  Twiller,  as  I  have  already  observed,  was  a  man  of 
few  words ;  he  was  likewise  a  mortal  enemy  to  multiplying  writ- 
ings—  or  being  disturbed  at  his  breakfast.  Having  listened  at- 
tentively to  the  statement  of  Wandle  Schoonhoven,  giving  an 
occasional  grunt,  as  he  shovelled  a  spoonful  of  Indian  pudding 
into  his  mouth,  —  either  as  a  sign  that  he  relished  the  dish,  or 
comprehended  the  story,  —  he  called  unto  him  his  constable,  and 
pulling  out  of  his  breeches-pocket  a  huge  jack-knife,  dispatched 
it  after  the  defendant  as  a  summons,  accompanied  by  his  tobacco- 
box  as  a  warrant. 

This  summary  process  was  as  effectual  in  those  simple  days  as 
was  the  seal-ring  of  the  great  Haroun  Alraschid  among  the  true 
believers.  The  two  parties  being  confronted  before  him,  each 
produced  a  book  of  accounts,  written  in  a  language  and  character 
that  would  have  puzzled  any  but  a  High-Dutch  commentator,  or 
a  learned  decipherer  of  Egyptian  obe.lisks.  The  sage  Wouter  took 
them  one  after  the  other,  and  having  poised  them  in  his  hands,  and 
attentively  counted  over  the  number  of  leaves,  fell  straightway  into 
a  very  great  doubt,  and  smoked  for  half  an  hour  without  saying  a 
word  ;  at  length,  laying  his  finger  beside  hif,  nose,  and  shutting  his 
eyes  for  a  moment,  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  has  just  caught  a 
subtle  idea  by  the  tail,  he  slowly  took  hiij  pipe  from  his  mouth, 
puffed  forth  a  column  of  tobacco-smoke,  and  with  marvellous 
gravity  and  solemnity  pronounced,  that,  having  carefully  counted 
over  the  leaves  and  weighed  the  books,  it  was  found,  that  one  was 
just  as  thick  and  as  heavy  as  the  other  :  therefore,  it  was  the  final 

K 


130 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


opinion  of  the  court  that  the  accounts  were  equally  balanced: 
therefore,  VVandle  should  give  Barent  a  receipt,  and  Barent  should 
give  Wandle  a  receipt,  and  the  constable  should  pay  the  costs. 

This  decision,  being  straightway  made  known,  diffused  general 
joy  throughout  New  Amsterdam,  for  the  people  immediately  per- 
ceived that  they  had  a  very  wise  and  equitable  magistrate  to  rule 
over  thern.  But  its  happiest  effect  was,  that  not  another  lawsuit 
took  place  throughout  the  whole  of  his  administration ;  and  the 
office  of  constable  fell  into  such  decay,  that  there  was  not  one  of 
those  losel  scouts  known  in  the  province  for  many  years.  I  am 
the  more  particular  in  dwelling  on  this  transaction,  not  only  be- 
cause I  deem  it  one  of  the  most  sage  and  righteous  judgments  on 
record,  and  well  worthy  the  attention  of  modern  magistrates,  but 
because  it  was  a  miraculous  event  in  the  history  of  the  renowned 
Wouter,  —  being  the  only  time  he  was  ever  known  to  come  to  a 
decision  in  the  whole  course  of  his  life. 

[From  A  History  of  New  York,  from  the  beginning  of  the  world  to  the  end 
of  tne  Dutch  dynasty  ;  containing,  among  many  surprising  and  curious  mat- 
ters, the  unutterable  panderings  of  l^^alter  the  Doubter,  the  disastrous  projects 
of  William  the  Testy,  and  the  chivalric  achievements  of  Peter  the  Headstrong; 
the  three  Dutch  governors  of  Neto  Amsterdam  ;  being  the  only  authentic  his- 
tory of  the  times  that  ever  hath  been  or  ever  will  be  published.  By  Diedrich 
Knickerbocker.     1809.    Book  iii,  chapter  I.] 


\m\ 


RIP  VAN  WINKLE 

In  a  long  ramble  of  the  kind  on  a  fine  autumnal  day,  Rip  had 
unconsciously  scrambled  to  one  of  the  highest  parts  of  the  Kaats- 
kill  mountains.  He  was  after  his  favorite  sport  of  squirrel  .hoot- 
ing, and  the  still  soHtudes  had  echoed  and  re-echoed  with  the 
reports  of  his  gun.  Panting  and  fatigued,  he  threw  himself,  late 
in  the  afternoon,  on  a  green  knoll,  covered  with  mountain  herbage, 
that  crowned  the  brow  of  a  precipice.  From  an  opening  between 
the  trees  he  could  overlook  all  the  lower  country  for  many  a  mile 
of  rich  woodland.  He  saw  at  a  distance  the  lordly  Hudson,  far, 
far  below  him,  moving  on  its  silent  but  majestic  course,  with  the 
reflection  of  a  purple  cloud,  or  the  sail  of  a  lagging  bark,  here 


wmm. 


WASHINGTON  IRVING 


^ 


S 


danced : 
It  should  c. 
:osts. 
1  general 
itely  per- 
e  to  rule 
:r  lawsuit 
and  the 
lot  one  of 
rs.     I  am 
:  only  be- 
jments  on 
rates,  but 
renowned 
:ome  to  a 


I  to  the  end 
urioui  mat- 
rous  projects 
Headstrong; 
uthentic  his- 
By  Diedrich 


yr,  Rip  had 
the  Kaats- 
irrel  ^hoot- 
l  with  the 
imself,  late 
in  herbage, 
ig  between 
lany  a  mile 

udson,  far, 
e,  with  the 

bark,  here 


and  there  bleeping  on  its  glassy  bosom,  and  at  last  losing  itself  in 
the  blue  highlands. 

On  the  other  side  he  looked  down  into  a  deep  mountain  glen, 
wild,  lonely,  and  shagged,  the  bottom  filled  with  fragments  from 
the  impending  cliffs,  and  scarcely  lighted  by  the  reflected  rays  of 
the  setting  sun.  For  some  time  Rip  lay  musing  on  this  scene ; 
evening  was  gradually  advancing ;  the  mountains  began  to  throw 
their  long  blue  shadows  over  the  valleys ;  he  saw  that  it  would  be 
dark  long  ''°fore  he  could  reach  the  village,  and  he  heaved  a  heavy 
sigh  when  he  thought  of  encountering  tb*"  terrors  of  Dame  Van 
Winkle. 

As  he  was  about  tc  descend,  he  heard  a  voice  from  a  distance, 
hallooing,  "  Rip  Van  Winkle  !  Rip  Van  Winkle  !  "  He  looked 
round,  but  could  see  nothing  but  a  crow  winging  its  solitary  flight 
across  the  mountain.  He  thought  his  fancy  must  have  deceived 
him,  and  turned  again  to  descend,  when  he  heard  the  same  cry 
ring  through  the  still  evening  air ;  "  Rip  Van  Winkle  !  Rip  Van 
Winkle  !  "  —  at  the  same  time  Wolf  bristled  up  his  back,  and  giv- 
ing a  low  growl,  skulked  to  his  master's  side,  looking  fearfully  'down 
into  the  glen.  Rip  now  felt  a  vague  apprehension  stealing  over 
him  ;  he  looked  anxiously  in  the  same  direction,  and  perceived  a 
strange  figure  slowly  toiling  up  the  rocks,  and  bending  under  the 
weight  of  something  he  carried  on  his  back.  He  was  surprised 
to  see  any  human  being  in  this  lonely  and  unfrequented  place,  but 
supposing  it  to  be  some  one  of  the  neighborhood  in  need  of  his 
assistance,  he  hastened  down  to  yield  it. 

On  nearer  approach  he  was  still  more  surprised  at  the  singularity 
of  the  stranger's  appearance.  He  was  a  short  square-built  ok! 
fellow,  with  thick  bushy  hair,  and  a  grizzled  beard.  His  dress  was 
of  the  antique  Dutch  fashion  —  a  cloth  jerkin  strapped  round  the 
waist  —  several  pair  of  breeches,  the  outer  one  of  ample  volume, 
decorated  with  rows  of  buttons  down  the  sides,  and  bunches  at 
the  knees.  He  bore  on  his  shoulder  a  stout  keg,  that  seemed  full 
of  liquor,  and  made  signs  for  Rip  to  approach  and  assist  him  with 
the  load.  Though  rather  shy  and  distrustful  of  this  new  acquaint- 
ance. Rip  complied  with  his  usual  alacrity ;  and  mutually  reliev- 
ing one  another,  they  clambered  up  a  narrow  gully,  apparently  the 
dry  bed  of  a  mountain  torrent.     As  tiiey  ascended.  Rip  every  now 


w^ 


"-"■'■  -"      ,- 


132 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


and  then  heard  long  rolling  peals,  like  distant  thunder,  that  seemed 
to  issue  out  of  a  deep  ravine,  or  rather  cleft,  between  lofty  rocks, 
toward  which  their  rugged  path  conducted.  He  paused  fc"  an 
instant,  but  supposing  it  to  be  the  muttering  of  one  of  those  tran- 
sient thunder-showers  which  often  take  place  in  mountain  heights, 
he  proceeded.  Passing  through  the  ravine,  they  came  to  a  hollow, 
like  a  small  amphitheatre,  surrounded  by  perpendicular  precipices, 
over  the  brinks  of  which  in  "  'nding  tiees  shot  their  branches,  so 
that  you  only  caught  glimpses  of  the  azure  sky  and  the  bright 
evening  cloud.  During  the  whole  time  Rip  and  his  companion 
had  labored  on  in  silence ;  for  though  the  former  marvelled  greatly 
what  could  be  the  object  of  carrying  a  keg  of  liquor  up  this 
wild  mountain,  yet  there  was  something  strange  and  incompre- 
hensible about  the  unknown,  that  inspired  awe  and  checked  famil- 
iarity. 

On  entering  the  amphitheatre,  new  objects  of  wonder  piesented 
themselves. '  On  a  level  spot  in  the  centre  was  a  company  of  odd- 
looking  personages  playing  at  nine-pins.  They  were  dressed  in 
a  quaint  outlandish  fashion ;  some  wore  short  doublets,  others  jer- 
kins, with  long  knives  in  their  belts,  and  most  of  them  had  enormous 
breeches,  of  similar  style  with  that  of  the  guide's.  Their  visages, 
too,  were  peculiar :  one  had  a  large  beard,  broad  face,  and  small 
piggish  eyes ;  the  face  of  another  seemed  to  consist  entirely  of 
nose,  and  was  surmounted  by  a  white  sugar-loaf  hat  set  off  with  a 
little  red  cock's  tail.  They  all  had  beards,  of  various  shapes  and 
colors.  There  was  one  who  seemed  to  be  the  commander.  He 
was  a  stout  old  gentleman,  with  a  weather-beaten  countenance ; 
he  wore  a  laced  doublet,  broad  belt  and  hanger,  high -crowned  hat 
and  feather,  red  stockings,  and  high-heeled  shoes,  with  roses  in 
them.  The  whole  group  reminded  Rip  of  the  figures  in  an  old 
Flemish  painting,  in  the  parlor  of  Dominie  Van  Shaick,  the  village 
parson,  and  which  had  been  brought  over  from  Holland  at  the  time 
of  the  settlement. 

What  seemed  particularly  odd  to  Rip  was,  that  though  these 
folks  were  evidently  amusing  themselves,  yet  they  maintained  the 
gravest '  faces,  the  most  mysterious  s>'ence,  and  were,  withal,  the 
most  melancholy  party  of  pleasure  he  had  ever  witnessed.  Nothing 
interrupted  the  stillness  of  the  scene  but  the  noise  of  the  balls. 


WliMfc..,a»,T 


_4».-' 


Sf-^ 


WASHINGTON  IRVING 


133 


:  seemed 
ty  rocks, 
d  fc'-  an 
o3e  tran- 
I  heights, 
a  hollow, 
recipices, 
,nches,  so 
he  bright 
jmpanion 
sd  greatly 
r  up  this 
incompre- 
ked  famil- 

piesented 
ny  of  odd- 
dressed  in 
others  jer- 
1  enormous 
eir  visages, 

and  small 
entirely  of 

off  with  a 
shapes  and 
nder.  He 
mtenance ; 

owned  hat 
roses  in 
in  an  old 

the  village 

at  the  time 

jgh  these 
itained  the 
withal,  the 
Nothing 

the  balls, 


which,  wlienever  they  were  rolled,  echoed  along  the  mountains 
like  rambling  peals  of  thunder. 

As  Rip  and  his  companion  approached  them,  they  suddenly 
desisted  from  their  play,  and  stared  at  him  with  such  fixed  statue- 
like gaze,  and  such  strange,  uncouth,  lack-lustre  counls-nances, 
that  his  heart  turned  within  him,  and  his  knees  smote  together. 
His  companion  now  emptied  the  contents  of  the  keg  into  large 
flagons,  and  made  signs  to  hin>  to  wait  upon  the  company.  He 
obeyed  with  fear  and  trembling ;  they  quaffed  the  liquor  in  pro- 
found silence,  and  then  returned  to  their  game. 

By  degrees  Rip's  awe  and  apprehension  subsided.  He  even 
ventured,  when  no  eye  was  fixed  upon  him,  to  taste  the  beverage, 
which  he  found  had  much  of  the  flavor  of  excellent  Hollands.  He 
was  naturally  a  thirsty  soul,  and  was  soon  tempted  to  repeat  the 
draught.  One  taste  provoked  another ;  and  he  reiterated  his  visits 
to  the  flagon  so  often  that  at  length  his  senses  were  overpowered, 
his  eyes  swam  in  his  head,  his  head  gradually  declined,  and  he  fell 
into  a  deep  sleep. 

On  waking;,  he  found  himself  on  the  green  knoll  whence  he  had 
first  seen  the  old  man  of  the  glen.  He  rubbed  his  eyes  —  it  was  a 
oright  sunny  morning.  The  birds  were  hopping  and  twittering 
among  the  bushes,  and  the  eagle  was  wheeling  aloft,  and  breasting 
the  pure  mountain  breeze.  "  Surely,"  thought  Rip,  "  I  have  not 
slept  here  all  night."  He  recalled  the  occurrences  before  he  fell 
asleep.  The  strange  man  with  a  keg  of  liquor — the  mountain 
ravine  —  the  wild  retreat  among  the  rocks  —  the  woe-begone  party 
at  nine-pins — the  flagon — "  Oh  !  that  flagon  !  that  wicked  flagon  ! " 
thought  Rip  —  "  what  excuse     all  I  make  to  Dame  Van  Winkle  ! " 

He  looked  round  for  his  gun,  but  in  place  of  the  clean  well-oiled 
fowling-piece,  he  found  an  old  firelock  lying  by  him,  the  barrel 
incrusted  with  rust,  the  lock  falling  off,  and  the  stock  worm-eaten. 
He  now  suspected  that  the  grave  roysters  of  the  mountain  had 
put  a  trick  upon  him,  and,  having  dosed  him  with  liquor,  had 
robbed  him  of  his  gun.  Wolf,  too,  had  disappeared,  but  he  might 
have  strayed  away  after  a  squirrel  or  partridge.  He  whistled  after 
him  and  shouted  his  name,  but  all  in  vain ;  the  echoes  repeated 
his  whistle  and  shout,  but  no  dog  was  to  be  seen. 

He  determined  to  revisit  the  scene  of  the  last  evening's  gambol, 


^i^" 


wmm 


iMteMmM 


rr 


.JiSb, 


134 


AMF.mCAN  PROSE 


and  if  he  met  with  any  of  the  party,  to  demand  his  dog  and  gun. 
As  he  rose  to  walk,  he  found  himself  stiff  in  the  joints,  and  want- 
ing in  his  usual  activity.  "  These  mountain  beds  do  not  a^jree 
with  me,"  thought  Rip,  '*  and  if  this  frolic  should  lay  me  up  with 
a  fit  of  the  rheumatism,  I  shall  have  a  blessed  time  with  Dame 
Van  Winkle."  With  some  difficulty  he  got  down  into  the  glen : 
he  found  the  gully  up  which  he  and  his  companion  had  ascended 
the  preceding  evening ;  but  to  his  astonishment  a  mountain  stream 
was  now  foaming  down  it,  leaping  from  rock  to  rock,  and  filling 
the  glen  with  babbling  murmurs.  He,  however,  made  shift  to 
scramble  up  its  sides,  working  his  toilsome  way  through  thickets 
of  birch,  sassafras,  and  witch-h.izel,  and  sometimes  tripped  up  or 
entangled  by  the  wild  grapevines  that  twisted  their  coils  or  tendrils 
from  tree  to  tree,  and  spread  a  kind  of  network  in  his  path. 

At  length  he  reached  to  where  the  ravine  had  opened  through 
the  cliffs  to  the  amphitheatre ;  but  no  traces  of  such  opening  re- 
mained. The  rocks  presented  a  high  impenetrable  wall  over  which 
the  torrent  came  tumbling  in  a  sheet  of  feathery  foam,  and  fell 
into  a  broad  deep  basin,  black  from  the  shadows  of  the  surround- 
ing forest.  Here,  then,  poor  Rip  was  brought  to  a  stand.  He 
again  called  and  whistled  after  his  dog ;  he  was  only  answered 
by  the  cawing  of  a  flock  of  idle  crews,  sporting  high  in  air  about  a 
dry  tree  that  overhung  a  sunny  precipice ;  and  who,  secure  in 
their  elevation,  seemed  to  look  down  and  scoff  at  the  poor  man's 
perplexities.  What  was  to  be  done?  the  morning  was  passing 
away,  and  Rip  felt  famished  for  want  of  his  breakfast.  He  grieved 
to  give  up  his  dog  and  gun  ;  he  dreaded  to  meet  his  wife  ;  but  it 
would  not  do  to  starve  among  the  mountains.  He  shook  his  head, 
shouldered  the  rusty  firelock,  and,  with  a  heart  full  of  trouble  and 
anxiety,  turned  his  steps  homeward. 

[From  The  Sketch-Book  of  Geoffrey  Crayon,  Gent.,  i8i9-i82o,"Rip  Van 
Winkle."] 


L  THE  ENCHANTED   STEED    ^ 

When  Governor  Manco,  or  "  the  one-armed,"  kept  up  a  show  of 
military  state  in  the  Alhambra,  he  became  nettled  at  the  reproaches 


«i^. 


ind  gun. 
ul  want- 

up  with 
h  Dame 
he  glen : 
iscended 
in  stream 
nd  filling 

shift  to 
I  thickets 
led  up  or 
r  tendrils 

th. 

i  through 

)ening  re- 

ver  which 

J,  and  fell 

surround- 

and.     He 

answered 
lir  about  a 

secure  in 
)oor  man's 
as  passing 

e  grieved 

ife ;  but  it 
his  head, 
Irouble  and 


3, "  Rip  Van 


a  show  of 
[reproaches 


WASHINGTON  IRVING 


135 


continually  cast  upon  his  fortress,  of  being  a  nestling- place  of  rogues 
and  contrabandistas.  On  a  sudden,  the  old  potentate  determined 
on  reform,  and  setting  vigorously  to  work,  ejected  whole  nests  of 
vagabonds  out  of  the  fortress  and  the  gypsy  caves  with  which  the 
surrounding  hills  are  honeycombed.  He  sent  out  soldiers,  also,  to 
patrol  the  avenues  and  footpaths,  with  orders  to  take  up  all  sus- 
picious persons. 

One  bright  summer  morning  a  patrol,  consisting  of  the  testy  old 
corporal  who  had  distinguished  himself  in  the  affair  of  the  notary, 
a  trumpeter,  and  two  privates,  was  seated  under  the  garden-wall 
of  the  GeneraUfe,  beside  the  road  which  leads  down  from  the 
Mountain  of  the  Sun,  when  they  heard  the  tramp  of  a  horse,  and 
a  male  voice  singing  in  rough,  though  not  unmusical  tones,  an  old 
Castilian  campaigning-song. 

Presently  they  beheld  a  sturdy,  sunburnt  fellow,  clad  in  the 
ragged  garb  of  a  foot-soldier,  leading  a  powerful  Arabian  horse 
caparisoned  in  the  ancient  Morisco  fashion. 

Astonished  at  the  sight  of  a  strange  soldier  descending,  steed 
in  hand,  from  that  solitary  mountain,  the  corporal  stepped  forth 
and  challenged  him.  ,    ..s,     ^'i-:• 

"  Who  goes  there  ? "  :.,       -v^    r 

"A  friend."  >.;.;-! 

"  Who  and  what  are  you?" 

"  A  poor  soldier  just  from  the  wars,  with  a  cracked  crown  and 
empty  purse  for  a  reward." 

By  this  time  they  were  enabled  to  view  him  more  narrowly.  He 
had  a  black  patch  across  his  forehead,  which,  with  a  grizzled 
beard,  added  to  a  certain  dare-devil  cast  of  countenance,  while  a 
slight  squint  threw  into  the  whole  an  occasional  gleam  of  roguish 
good-humor. 

Having  answered  the  questions  of  the  patrol,  the  soldier  seemed 
to  consider  himself  entitled  to  make  others  in  return.  "  May  I 
ask,"  said  he,  "what  city  is  that  which  I  see  at  the  foot  of  the 
hill?" 

"  What  city  ! "  cried  the  trumpeter ;  "  come,  that's  too  bad. 
Here's  a  fellow  lurking  about  the  Mountain  of  the  Sun,  and  de- 
mands the  name  of  the  great  city  of  Granada." 

"  Granada !    Madre  di  Dios  !  can  it  be  possible?  " 


on 


13« 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


"  Perhaps  not ! "  rejoined  the  trumpeter ;  "  and  perhaps  you 
have  no  idea  that  yoiuler  are  the  towers  of  the  Alhambra?" 

"  Son  of  a  trumpet,"  rephed  the  stranger,  "  do  not  triflr  with 
me ;  if  this  be  indeed  the  Alhambra,  I  have  some  strange  matters 
to  reveal  to  the  governor." 

"  You  will  have  an  opjjortunity,"  said  the  corporal,  "  for  we 
mean  to  take  you  before  him."  By  this  time  the  trumpeter  had 
seized  tlie  bridle  of  the  steed,  the  two  privates  had  each  se- 
cured an  arm  of  the  soldier,  the  corporal  put  himself  in  front, 
gave  the  word, "  Forward  —  march  !  "  and  away  they  marched  for 
the  Alhambra. 

The  sight  of  a  ragged  foot-soldier  and  a  fine  Arabian  horse, 
brought  in  captive  by  th2  patrol,  attracted  the  attention  of  all  the 
idlers  of  the  fortress,  and  of  those  gossip  groups  that  generally  as- 
semble about  wells  and  fountains  at  early  dawn.  The  \^'heel  of  the 
cistern  paused  in  its  rotations,  and  the  slip-shod  servant-maid  stood 
gaping,  with  pitcher  in  hand,  as  the  corporal  passed  by  with 
his  prize.  A  motley  train  gradually  gathered  in  the  rear  of  the 
escort. 

Knowing  nods  and  winks  and  conjectures  passed  from  one  to 
another.  "  It  is  a  deserter,"  said  one ;  "  A  contrabandista,"  said 
another ;  "  A  bandolero,"  said  a  third  ;  —  until  it  was  affirmed  that 
a  captain  of  a  desperate  band  of  robbers  had  been  captured  by  the 
prowess  of  the  corporal  and  his  patrol.  "  Well,  well,"  said  the  old 
crones,  one  to  another,  "  captain  or  not,  let  him  get  out  of  the 
grasp  of  old  Governor  Manco  if  he  can,  though  he  is  but  one- 
handed." 

Governor  Manco  was  seated  in  one  of  the  inner  halls  of  the  Al- 
hambra, taking  his  morning's  cup  of  chocolate  in  company  with  his 
confessor,  —  a  fat  Franciscan  friar,  from  the  neighboring  convent. 
A  demure,  dark-eyed  damsel  of  Malaga,  the  daughter  of  his  house- 
keeper, was  attending  upon  him.  The  world  hinted  that  the  dam- 
sel, who,  with  all  her  demureness,  was  a  sly  buxom  baggage,  had 
found  out  a  soft  spot  in  the  iron  heart  of  the  old  governor,  and 
held  complete  control  over  him.  But  let  that  pass  —  the  domestic 
affairs'  of  these  mighty  potentates  of  the  earth  should  not  be  too 
narrowly  scrutinized. 

When  word  was  brought  that  a  suspicious  stranger  had  been 


niWwiHgMfctifiiiwriir: 


mm 


■un 


mmmmtammm,-. 


•haps  you 
I?" 

triflr  with 
je  matters 

,  "  for  we 
ipeter  had 
each  se- 
f  in  front, 
larched  for 

>ian  horse, 
1  of  all  the 
enerally  as- 
■heel  of  the 
■maid  stood 
:d  by  with 
rear  of  the 

from  one  to 
idista,"  said 
jffirmed  that 
tured  by  the 
said  the  old 
t  out  of  the 
is  but  one- 
Is  of  the  Al- 
)any  with  his 
ing  convent, 
jf  his  house- 
lat  the  dam- 
)aggage,  had 
overnor,  and 
he  domestic 
I  not  be  too 

er  had  been 


•fjn: 


WASHINGTON  IRVING 


137 


taken  lurking  about  the  fortress,  and  was  actually  in  the  outer 
court,  in  durance  of  the  corporal,  waiting  the  pleasure  of  his 
Excellency,  the  pride  and  stateliness  of  office  swelled  the  bosom 
of  the  governor.  Giving  back  his  chocolate-cup  into  the  hands 
of  the  demure  damsel,  he  called  for  his  ba'ket-hilted  sword, 
girded  it  to  his  side,  twirled  up  his  moustaches,  took  his  seat 
in  a  large  high-backed  chair,  assumed  a  bitter  and  forbidding 
aspect,  and  ordered  the  prisoner  into  his  presence.  The  soldier 
was  brought  in,  still  closely  pinioned  by  his  captors,  and  guarded 
by  the  corporal.  He  maintained,  however,  a  resolute,  self-confi- 
dent air,  and  returned  the  sharp,  scrutinizing  look  of  the  governor 
with  an  easy  squint,  which  by  no  means  pleased  the  punctilious 
old  potentate. 

"  Well,  culprit,"  said  the  governor,  after  he  had  regarded  him 
for  a  moment  in  silence, "  what  have  you  to  say  for  yourself — who 
are  you  ?  " 

"  A  soldier,  just  from  the  wars,  who  has  brought  away  nothing 
but  scars  and  bruises." 

"A  soldier  —  humph  —  a  foot-soldier  by  your  garb.  I  under- 
stand you  have  a  fine  Arabian  horse.  I  presume  you  brought  him 
too  from  the  wars,  besides  your  scars  and  bruises." 

"  May  it  please  your  Excellency,  I  have  something  strange  to 
tell  about  that  horse.  Indeed  I  have  one  of  the  most  wonder- 
ful things  to  relate.  Something  too  that  concerns  the  security  of 
this  fortress,  indeed  of  all  Granada.  But  it  is  a  matter  to  be  im- 
parted only  to  your  private  ear,  or  in  presence  of  such  only  as  are 
in  your  confidence." 

The  governor  considered  for  a  moment,  and  then  directed  the 
corporal  and  his  men  to  withdraw,  but  to  post  themselves  outside 
of  the  door,  and  be  ready  at  a  call.  "  This  holy  friar,"  said  he, "  is 
my  confessor,  you  may  say  anything  in  his  presence ;  —  and  this 
damsel,"  nodding  towards  the  handmaid,  who  had  loitered  with  an 
air  of  great  curiosity,  "  this  damsel  is  of  great  secrecy  and  dis- 
cretion, and  to  be  trusted  with  anything." 

The  soldier  gave  a  glance  between  a  squint  and  a  leer  at  the 
demure  handmaid.  "  I  am  perfectly  willing,"  said  he,  "  that  the 
damsel  should  remain." 

When  all  th?  rest  had  withdrawn,  the  soldier  commenced  his 


m 


iKiYMrh 


138  AMERICAN  PROSE 

Story.     He  was  a  fluent,  smooth-tongued  varlet,  and  had  a  com- 
mand of  language  above  his  apparent  rank. 

"  May  it  please  your  Kxcellency,"  said  he,  "  1  am,  as  I  before 
observed,  a  soldier,  and  have  seen  ■  "ne  hard  service,  but  my  term 
of  enUstment  being  expired,  I  was  discharged,  not  long  since,  from 
the  army  at  Valladolid,  and  set  out  on  foot  for  my  native  village  in 
Andalusia.  Yesterday  evening  the  sun  went  dnwn  as  I  was  trav- 
ersing a  great  dry  plain  of  old  Castile." 

"Hold!"  cried  the  governor,  "what  is  this  you  say?  Old 
Castile  is  some  two  or  three  hundred  miles  from  this." 

"  Even  so,"  replied  the  soldi'.r,  coolly.  "  I  told  your  Excellency 
I  had  strange  things  to  relate  ;  but  not  more  strange  than  true, 
as  your  Excellency  will  find,  if  you  will  deign  me  a  patient 
hearing." 

"Proceed,  culprit,"  said  the  governor,  twirling  up  his  mous- 
taches. 

"  As  the  sun  went  down,"  continued  the  soldier,  "  I  cast  my 
eyes  about  in  search  of  quarters  for  the  night,  but  far  as  my 
sight  could  reach  there  were  no  signs  of  habitation.  I  saw  that 
I  should  have  to  make  my  bed  on  the  naked  plain,  with  my  knap- 
sack for  a  pillow ;  but  your  Excellency  is  an  old  soldier,  and  knows 
that  to  one  who  has  been  in  the  wars,  such  a  night's  lodging  is  no 
great  hardship." 

The  governor  nodded  assent,  as  he  drew  his  pocket-handker- 
chief out  of  the  basket-hilt  to  drive  away  a  fly  that  buzzed  about 
his  nose. 

"  Well,  to  make  a  long  story  short,"  condnued  the  soldier,  "  I 
trudged  forward  for  several  miles  until  I  came  to  a  bridge  ovek 
a  deep  ravine,  through  which  ran  a  little  thread  of  water,  almost 
dried  up  by  the  summer  heat.  At  one  end  of  the  bridge  was  a 
Moorish  tower,  the  upper  end  all  in  ruins,  but  a  vault  in  the 
foundation  quite  entire.  Here,  thinks  I,  is  a  good  place  to  make 
a  halt ;  so  I  went  down  to  the  stream,  and  took  a  hearty  drink,  for 
the  water  was  pure  and  sweet,  and  I  was  parched  with  thirst ;  then, 
opening  my  wallet,  I  took  out  an  onion  and  a  few  crusts,  which 
were  all  my  provisions,  and  seating  myself  on  a  stone  on  the  mar- 
gin of  the  stream,  began  to  make  my  supper,  —  intending  afterwards 
to  quarter  myself  for  the  night  in  the  vault  of  the  tower ;  and  ca,M- 


"NMia 


vmntimMmm  iwiiiiiiimmmi 


mim-  --simmimik^ 


i^- 


id  a  com- 

is  I  before 
It  my  term 
since,  from 
c  village  in 
I  was  trav- 

say?    Old 

Excellency 
than  true, 
a  patient 


I  his  mous- 

'I  cast  my 
far  as  my 
I  saw  that 
th  my  knap- 
•,  ami  knows 
xlging  is  no 

et-handker- 
uzzed  about 

soldier,  "I 
jridge  ovek 
inter,  almost 
)ridge  was  a 
k^ault  in  the 
ace  to  make 
rty  drink,  for 
hirst ;  then, 
:rusts,  which 
on  the  mar- 
ig  afterwards 

;  and  ca  oi- 


ty^.s/z/jva/vy  h^i'/nu 


'39 


tal  (luarters  they  woiild  have  been  for  a  campaigner  just  from  the 
wars,  as  your  ICxcellency,  who  is  an  old  soldier,  may  snp|>ose." 

"  I  have  put  up  gladly  with  worse  in  my  time,"  said  the  gov- 
ernor, returning  his  i)ocket-handkerchief  into  the  hilt  of  his  sword. 

"  While  I  was  quietly  crunching  my  crust,"  ])ursucd  the  soldier, 
"  I  heard  sometliing  stir  within  the  vault ;  I  listened  —  it  was  the 
tramp  of  a  horse.  By-and-by  a  man  came  forth  from  a  door  in 
the  foundation  of  the  tower,  close  by  the  water's  edge,  leading  a 
powerful  horse  by  the  bridle.  I  could  not  well  make  out  what  he 
was,  by  the  starlight.  It  had  a  suspicious  look  to  be  lurking  among 
the  ruins  of  a  l  >wer,  in  that  wild  solitary  place.  He  might  be  a 
mere  wayfarer,  like  myself;  he  might  be  a  contrabandista ;  he 
might  be  a  bandolero  !  what  of  that  ?  thank  heaven  and  iny 
poverty,  I  had  nothing  to  lose ;  so  I  sat  still  and  crunched  my 
crust. 

"  He  led  his  horse  to  the  water,  close  by  where  I  was  sitting,  so 
that  I  had  a  fair  o])portunity  of  reconnoitring  him.  To  my  sur- 
|)rise  he  was  dressed  in  a  Muorish  garb,  with  a  cuirass  of  steel, 
and  a  polished  skull-cap  that  I  distinguished  oy  the  reflection  of 
the  stars  upon  it.  His  horse,  too,  was  harnessed  in  the  Morisco 
fashion,  with  great  shovel  stirrups.  He  ku  him,  as  I  said,  to  the 
side  of  the  stream,  into  which  the  animal  plunged  his  head  almost 
to  the  eyes,  and  drank  until  I  thought  he  would  have  burst. 

" '  Comraile,'  said  I,  *  your  steed  drinks  well ;  it's  a  good  sign 
when  a  horse  plunges  his  muzzle  bravely  into  the  water.' 

" '  He  may  well  drink,'  said  the  stranger,  speaking  with  a  Moor- 
ish accent ;  '  it  is  a  good  year  since  he  had  his  last  draught.' 

" '  By  Santiago  ! '  said  I,  '  that  beats  even  the  camels  I  have 
seen  in  Africa.  But  come,  you  seem  to  be  something  of  a  soldier, 
will  you  sit  down  and  take  part  of  a  soldier's  fare?'  In  fact, 
I  felt  the  want  of  a  companion  in  that  lonely  place,  and  was  will 
ing  to  put  up  with  an  infidel.  Besides,  as  your  Excellency  well 
knows,  a  soldier  is  never  very  p.TticnIar  about  the  faith  of  his 
company,  and  soldiers  of  all  countries  are  comrades  on  pea-^eable 
ground."  - 

The  governor  again  nodded  assent. 

"  Well,  as  I  was  saying,  I  invited  him  to  share  my  supper,  such 
as  it  was,  for  I  could  not  do  less  in  common  hospitality.     '  I  have 


m 


140 


AMEKfCAN  PKOSE 


no  time  to  pause  for  meat  or  drink,'  said  he  ;  'I  have  a  long  jour- 
ney to  make  before  morning.' 

"'  In  which  direction?'  said  I.  .  ; 

"  •  Andalusia,'  said  he. 

•"  Kxacily  my  route,'  said  I ;  '  so,  as  you  won't  stop  and  eat 
with  mo,  perhaps  you  will  let  me  mount  and  ride  with  you.  I  see 
your  horse  is  of  a  powerful  frame  ;  I'll  warrant  he'll  carry  ilouble.' 

"  •  Agreed,'  said  the  trooper ;  and  it  would  not  have  been  civil 
and  soldierlike  to  refuse,  especially  as  1  had  offered  to  share  my 
supper  with  him.    So  up  he  mounted,  and  up  I  mounted  behind 

him. 

"  '  Hold  fast,'  said  he  ;  'my  steed  goes  like  the  wind.' 

" '  Never  fear  me,'  said  I,  and  so  off  we  set. 

"  From  a  walk  the  horse  soon  passed  to  a  trot,  from  a  trot  to  a 
gallop,  and  from  a  gallop  to  a  harum-scarum  scamper.  It  seemed 
as  if  rocks,  trees,  houses,  everything  flew  hurry-scurry  behind  us. 

" '  What  town  is  this?  '  said  I. 

" '  Segovia,'  said  he ;  and  before  the  words  were  out  of  his 
mouth,  the  towers  of  Segovia  were  out  of  sight.  We  swept  up  the 
Guadarama  Mountains,  and  down  by  the  Escurial ;  and  we  skirtec' 
the  walls  of  Madrid,  and  we  scoured  away  across  the  plains  of  La 
Mancha.  In  this  way  we  went  up  hill  and  down  dale,  by  towns 
and  cities,  all  buried  in  deep  sleep,  and  across  mountains,  and 
plains,  and  rivers,  just  glimmering  in  the  starlight. 

"  To  make  a  long  story  short,  and  not  to  fatigue  your  Excel- 
lency, Hie  trooper  suddenly  pulled  up  on  the  side  of  a  mountain. 
'Here  ve  are,'  said  he,  'at  the  end  of  our  journey.'  I  looked 
about,  but  could  see  no  signs  of  habitation ;  nothing  but  the 
mouth  of  a  cavern.  While  I  looked  I  saw  multitudes  of  people 
in  Moorish  dresses,  somo  on  horseback,  some  on  foot,  arriving 
as  if  borne  by  the  wind  from  all  points  of  the  compass,  and 
hurrying  into  the  mouth  of  the  cavern  Hke  bees  into  a  hive. 
Before  I  could  ask  a  question,  the  trooper  struck  his  long  Moorish 
spurs  into  the  horse's  flanks,  and  dashed  in  with  the  throng.  We 
passed  along  a  steep  winding  way,  that  descended  into  the  very 
bowels  of  the  mountain.  As  we  pushed  on,  a  light  began  to 
glimmer  up,  by  little  and  little,  Hke  the  first  glimmerings  of  day, 
but  what  caused  it  I  could  not  discern.     It  grew  stronger  and 


'.jggH^i^f^i^ 


■MM 


miu:. 


r 


IMH 


WASiriNGTON  IRVING 


141 


long  jour- 


p  and  eat 
oil.  I  see 
ry  double.' 
been  civil 
)  sliare  my 
cd  behind 


a  trot  to  a 
It  seemed 
behind  us. 

out  of  his 
irept  up  the 
,  we  skirteH 
lains  of  La 
e,  by  towns 
intains,  and 

rour  Excel- 
mountain. 

I  looked 
ng  but  the 
s  of  people 
ot,  arriving 
nipass,  and 
rjto  a  hive, 
ng  Moorish 
irong.  We 
ito  the  very 

began  to 
ngs  of  day, 
ronger  and 


stronger,  and  enabled  me  to  sec  everything  around.  I  now  no- 
ticed, as  we  passed  along,  great  caverns,  opening  to  the  right 
and  left,  like  halls  in  an  arsenal.  In  some  there  were  shiehls,  and 
hein  ets,  and  cuirasses,  and  lances,  and  cimeters,  hanging  against 
the\'alls;  in  others  there  were  great  heaps  of  warlike  munitions 
and  tamp-equipage  lying  upon  the  ground. 

"  It  woulil  have  done  your  Kxcellency's  heart  good,  being  an 
old  soldier,  to  have  seen  such  grand  provision  for  war.  Then,  in 
other  caverns,  there  were  long  rows  of  horsemen  armed  to  the 
teeth,  with  lances  raised  and  banners  unfurled,  all  ready  for  the 
field ;  but  they  all  sat  motionless  in  their  saddles,  like  so  many 
statues.  In  other  halls  were  warriors  sleeping  on  the  ground 
beside  their  horses,  and  foot-soldiers  in  groups  ready  to  fall  into 
the  ranks.     All  were  in  old-fashioned  Moorish  dresses  and  armor. 

"  Well,  your  Excellency,  to  ciit  a  long  story  short,  we  at  length 
entered  an  immense  cavern,  or  I  may  say  palace,  of  grotto- 
work,  the  walls  of  which  seemed  to  be  veined  with  gold  and  silver, 
and  to  sparkle  with  diamonds  and  sa])phires  and  all  kinds  of 
precious  stones.  At  the  upper  end  sat  a  Moorish  king  on  a 
golden  throne,  with  his  nobles  on  each  side,  and  a  guard  of 
African  blacks  with  drawn  cimeters.  All  the  crowd  that  continued 
to  flock  in,  and  amounted  to  thousands  and  thousands,  passed  one 
by  one  before  his  throne,  each  paying  homage  as  he  passed. 
Some  of  the  multitude  were  dressed  in  magnificent  robes,  without 
stain  or  blemish,  and  sparkling  with  jewels ;  others  in  burnished 
and  enamelled  armor ;  while  others  were  in  mouldered  and  mil- 
dewed garments,  and  in  armor  all  battered  and  dented  and 
covered  with  rust. 

"  I  had  hitherto  held  my  tongue,  for  your  Excellency  well 
knows  it  is  not  for  a  soldier  to  ask  many  questions  when  on  duty, 
but  I  could  keep  silence  no  longer. 

" '  Prithee,  comrade,'  said  I,  '  what  is  the  meaning  of  all  this? ' 

"  '  This,'  said  the  trooper,  '  is  •  a  great  and  fearful  mystery. 
Know,  O  Christian,  that  you  see  before  you  the  court  ind  army 
of  Boalxlil  the  last  king  of  Granada.' 

"  'What  is  this  you  tell  me?'  cried  I.  '  Boabdil  and  his  court 
were  exiled  from  the  'and  hundreds  of  years  agone,  and  all  died 
in  Africa.'  


mm 


ntBflHiMiia 


J 


w-'m 


Hit 


142 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


"  '  So  it  is  recorded  in  your  lying  chronicles,'  replied  the  Moor ; 
'  but  know  that  Boabdil  and  the  warriors  wiio  made  the  last 
struggle  for  (iranada  were  all  shut  up  in  this  mountain  by  povirer- 
ful  enchantment.  As  for  the  king  and  army  that  marched  fqrth 
from  Granada  at  the  time  of  the  surrender,  they  were  a  mere 
phantom  train  of  spirits  and  demons,  permitted  to  assume  those 
shapes  to  deceive  the  Christian  sovereigns.  And  furthermore  let 
me  tell  you,  friend,  that  all  Spain  is  a  country  under  the  power  of 
enchantment.  There  is  not  a  mountain  cave,  not  a  lonely  watch- 
tower  in  the  plains,  nor  ruined  castle  on  the  hills,  but  has  some 
spellbound  warriors  sleeping  from  age  to  age  within  its  vaults, 
until  the  sins  are  expiated  for  which  AUr.h  permitted  the  dominion 
to  pass  for  a  time  out  of  the  hands  of  the  faithful.  Once  every 
year,  on  the  eve  of  St.  John,  they  are  released  from  enchantment 
from  sunsPt  to  sunrise,  and  permitted  to  repair  here  to  pay  hom- 
age to  their  sovereign  !  and  the  crowds  which  you  beheld  swarm- 
ing into  the  cavern  are  Moslem  warriors  from  their  haunts  in  all 
parts  of  Spain.  For  my  own  part,  you  saw  the  ruined  tower  of  the 
bridge  in  old  Castile,  where  I  have  now  wintered  and  summered 
for  many  hundred  years,  and  where  I  must  be  back  again  by  day- 
break. As  to  the  battalions  of  horse  and  foot  which  you  beiield 
drawn  up  in  array  in  the  neighboring  caverns,  they  are  the  spell- 
bound warriors  of  Granada.  It  is  written  in  the  book  of  fiite,  that 
when  the  enchantment  is  broken,  Boabdil  will  descend  from  the 
mountains  at  the  head  of  this  army,  resume  his  throne  in  the 
Alhambra  and  his  sway  of  Granada,  and  gathering  together 
the  enchanted  warriors  from  all  parts  of  Spain,  will  reconquer 
the  Peninsula  and  restore  it  to  Moslem  rule.' 

" '  And  when  shall  this  happen  ? '  said  I. 

" '  Allah  alone  knows :  we  had  hoped  the  day  of  deliverance 
was  at  hand;  but  there  reigns  at  present  a  vigilant  governor  in 
Alhambra,  a  stanch  old  soldier,  well  known  as  Governor  Manco. 
While  such  a  warrior  holds  command  of  the  very  outpost,  and 
stands  ready  to  check  the  first  irruption  from  the  mountain,  I 
fear  Boabdil  and  his  soldiery  must  be  content  to  rest  upon  their 

arms.'" 

Here  the  governor  raised  himself  somewhat  perpendicularly, 
adjusted  his  sword,  ind  twirled  up  his  moustaches. 


mmmmimmssmssfmsfim 


WASHINGTON  IRVING 


143 


le  Moor ; 

the  last 
)y  poii^er- 
led  forth 
e  a  mere 
ime  those 
rmore  let 
power  of 
jly  watch- 
lias  some 
its  vaults, 
dominion 
Mice  every 
chantment 
pay  hom- 
:ld  swarm- 
lunts  in  all 
)wer  of  the 
summered 
lin  by  day- 
you  beiield 
;  the  spell- 
jf  fiite,  that 
1  from  the 
one  in  the 
g   together 

reconquer 


deliverance 
pvenior  in 
lor  Manco. 

tpost,  and 
nountain,  I 

upon  their 

endicularly, 


"  To  make  a  long  story  short,  and  not  to  fatigue  your  Excellency, 
the  trooper,  having  given  me  this  account,  dismounted  from  his 
steed. 

" '  Tarry  here,'  said  he,  '  and  guard  my  steed  while  I  go  and 
bow  the  knee  to  Boabdil.'  So  saying,  he  strode  away  among  the 
throng  that  pressed  forward  to  the  throne. 

"'What's  to  be  done?'  thought  I,  when  thus  left  to  myself; 
'  shall  I  wait  here  tintil  this  infidel  returns  to  whisk  rae  off  on  his 
goblin  steed,  the  Lord  knows  where ;  or  shall  I  make  the  most  of 
ray  time  and  beat  a  retreat  from  this  hobgoblin  community?' 
A  soldier's  mind  is  soon  made  up,  as  your  Excellency  well  knows. 
As  to  the  horse,  he  belonged  to  an  avowed  enemy  of  the  faith  and 
the  realm,  and  was  a  fair  prize  according  to  the  rules  of  war.  So 
hoisting  myself  from  the  crupper  into  the  saddle,  I  turned  the 
reins,  struck  the  Moorish  stirrups  into  the  sides  of  the  steed,  and 
put  him  to  make  the  best  of  his  way  out  of  the  passagie  by  which 
we  had  entered.  As  we  scoured  by  the  halls  where  the  Moslem 
horsemen  sat  in  motionless  battalions,  I  thought  I  heard  the  clang 
of  armor  and  a  hollow  murmur  of  voices.  I  gave  the  steed 
another  taste  of  the  stirrups  and  doubled  my  speed.  There  was 
now  a  sound  behind  me  like  a  rushing  blast ;  I  heard  the  clatter 
of  a  thousand  hoofs ;  a  countless  throng  overtook  me.  I  was 
borne  along  in  the  press,  and  hurled  forth  from  the  mouth  of  the 
cavern,  wiiile  thousands  of  shadowy  forms  were  swept  off  in  every 
direction  by  the  four  winds  of  heaven. 

"  In  the  whirl  and  confusion  of  the  scene  I  was  thrown  sense- 
less to  the  earth.  When  I  came  to  myself,  I  was  lying  on  the 
brow  of  a  hill,  with  the  Arabian  steed  standing  beside  me ;  for  in 
falling,  my  arm  had  slipped  within  the  bridle,  which,  I  presume, 
prevented  his  whisking  off  to  old  Castile. 

"  Your  Excellency  may  easily  judge  of  my  surprise,  on  looking 
round,  to  behold  hedges  of  aloes  and  Indian  figs  and  other  proofs 
of  a  southern  climate,  and  to  see  a  great  city  below  me,  with  towers, 
and  palaces,  and  a  grand  cathedral. 

"I  descended  the  hill  cautiously,  leading  my  steed,  for  I  was 
afraid  to  mo  mt  him  again,  lest  he  should  play  me  some  slippery 
trick.  As  I  descended  I  met  with  your  patrol,  who  let  me  into 
the  secret  that  it  was  Granada  that  lay  before  me,  and  that  I  was 


■J  , 


NHItlM 


>Si'^ 


144 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


pt  .<i 


actually  under  the  walls  of  the  Alhambra,  the  fortress  of  the  re- 
doubted Governor  Manco,  the  terror  of  all  enchanted  Moslems. 
When  I  heard  this,  I  determined  at  once  to  seek  your  Excel- 
lency, to  inform  you  of  all  that  I  had  seen,  and  to  warn  you  of 
ti.°  perils  that  surround  and  undermine  you,  thai  you  may  take 
measures  in  time  to  guard  your  fortress,  and  the  kingdon,  itself, 
from  this  intestine  army  that  lurks  in  the  very  bowels  of  the  land." 

"  And  prithee,  friend,  you  who  are  a  veteran  campaigner,  and 
have  seen  so  much  service,"  said  the  governor,  "  how  would  you 
advise  me  to  proceed,  in  order  to  prevent  this  evil?" 

"  It  is  not  for  an  humble  private  of  the  ranks,"  said  the  soldier, 
modestly,  "  to  pretend  to  instruct  a  commander  of  your  Excel- 
lency's sagacity,  but  it  appears  to  me  that  your  Excellency  might 
cause  all  the  caves  and  entrances  into  the  mountain  to  be  walled 
up  with  solid  mason-work,  so  that  Boabdil  and  his  army  might  be 
completely  corked  up  in  their  subterranean  habitation.  If  the 
good  father,  too,"  added  the  soldier,  reverently  bowing  to  the 
friar,  and  devoutly  crossing  himself,  "  would  consecrate  the  barri- 
catloes  with  his  blessing,  and  put  up  a  few  crosses  and  relics  and 
images  of  saints,  I  think  they  might  withstand  all  the  power  of 
infidel  enchantments." 

"  They  doubtless  would  be  of  great  avail,"  said  the  friar. 

The  governor  now  placed  his  arm  akimbo,  with  his  hand  resting 
on  tlie  hilt  of  his  Toledo,  fixed  his  eye  upon  the  soldier,  and 
gently  wagging  his  head  from  one  side  to  the  other,  — 

"  So,  friend,"  said  he,  "  then  you  really  suppose  I  am  to  be 
gulled  with  this  cock-and-buil  story  about  i;nchanted  mountains 
an<l  en(;hanted  Moors?  Hark  ye,  culprit!  — not  another  word. 
An  (jld  soldier  you  may  be,  but  you'll  find  you  have  an  old  soldier 
to  (leal  with,  and  one  not  easily  outgeneralled.  Ho  !  guards  there  I 
l)ut  this  fellow  in  irons." 

The  demure  handmaid  would  have  put  in  a  word  in  favor  of 
the  prisoner,  but  the  governor  silenced  her  with  a  look. 

As  they  were  pinioning  the  soldier,  one  of  the  guards  felt  some- 
thing of  bulk  in  his  pocket,  and  drawing  it  forth,  found  a  long 
leathern  purse  that  appeared  to  be  well  filled.  Holding  it  by  one 
corner,  he  turned  out  the  contents  on  the  table  before  the  gov- 
ernor, and  never  did  freebooter's  hag  make  more  gorgeous  de- 


WASHINGTON  IRVING 


145 


■  the  re- 

»loslems. 
r  Excel- 
1  you  of 
itiay  take 
n-x,  Hself, 
he  land." 
gner,  and 
ould  you 

e  soldier, 
ur  Excel- 
icy  might 
be  walled 

might  be 
n.  If  the 
ng  to  the 

the  barri- 
relics  and 

power  of 

iar. 

ind  resting 

jldier,  and 

am  to  be 
mountains 

ther  word, 
old  soldier 

ards  there  ! 

in  favor  of 

felt  some- 
und  a  long 
g  it  by  one 
e  the  gov- 
)rg°ous  de- 


livery. Out  tumbled  rings,  and  jewels,  and  rosaries  of  pearls,  and 
sparkling  diamond  crosses,  and  a  profusion  of  ancient  golden 
coin,  some  of  which  fell  jingling  to  the  floor,  and  rolled  away  to 
the  uttermost  parts  of  the  chamber. 

For  a  time  the  functions  of  justice  were  suspended ;  there  was 
a  universal  scramble  after  the  glittering  fugitives.  The  governor 
alone,  who  was  imbued  with  true  Spanish  pride,  maintained  his 
stately  decorum,  though  his  eye  betrayed  a  little  anxiety  until  the 
last  coin  and  jewel  was  restored  to  the  sack. 

The  friar  was  not  so  calm ;  his  whole  face  glowed  like  a  furnace, 
and  his  eyes  twinkled  and  flashed  at  sight  of  the  rosaries  and 
crosses. 

"Sacrilegious  wretch  that  thou  art!"  exclaimed  he;  "what 
church  or  sanctuary  hast  thou  been  plundering  of  these  sacred 
relics?" 

"  Neither  one  nor  the  other,  holy  father.  If  they  be  sacrile- 
gious spoils,  they  must  have  been  taken  in  times  long  past,  by  the 
infidel  trooper  I  have  mentioned.  I  was  just  going  to  tell  his  Ex- 
cellency when  he  interrupted  me,  that,  on  taking  possession  of 
the  trooper's  horse,  I  unhooked  a  leathern  sack  which  hung  at 
the  saddle-bow,  and  which  I  presume  contained  the  plunder  of 
his  campaignings  in  days  of  old,  when  the  Moors  overran  the 
country." 

"  Mighty  well ;  at  present  you  will  make  up  your  mind  to  take 
up  your  quarters  in  a  chamber  of  the  vermilion  tower,  which, 
though  not  under  a  magic  spell,  will  hold  you  as  safe  as  any  cave 
of  your  enchanted  Moors." 

"  Your  Excellency  will  do  as  you  think  proper,"  said  the 
prisoner,  coolly.  "  I  shall  be  thankful  to  your  Excellency  for  any 
accommodation  in  the  fortress.  A  soldier  who  has  been  in  the 
wars,  as  your  Excellency  well  knows,  is  not  particular  about  his 
lodgings;  and  provided  I  have  a  snug  dungeon  and  regular 
rations,  I  shall  manage  to  make  myself  comfortable.  I  would 
only  entreat  that  while  your  Excellency  is  so  careful  about  me, 
you  would  have  an  eye  to  your  fortress,  and  think  on  the  hint  I 
dropped  about  stopping  up  the  entrances  to  the  mountain." 

Here  ended  the  scene.  The  prisoner  was  conducted  to  a 
strong  dungeon  in  the  vermilion  tower,  the  Arabian  steed  was 


HigWwiii'ti'iWw  at  •  I  'ic 


MMH 


146  AMERICAN  PROSE 

led  to  his  Excellency's  stable,  and  the  trooper's  sack  was  deposited 
in  his  Excellency's  strong-box.  To  the  latter,  it  is  tnie,  the  friar 
made  some  demur,  questioning  whether  the  sacred  relics,  which 
were  evidently  sacrilegious  spoils,  should  not  be  placed  in  custody 
of  the  church ;  but  as  the  governor  was  peremptory  on  the  sub- 
ject, and  was  absolute  lord  in  the  Alhambra,  the  friar  discreetly 
dropped  the  discussion,  but  determined  to  convey  intelligence  of 
the  fact  to  the  church  dignitaries,  in  Granada. 

[The  Alhambra  :  a  Series  of  Tales  and  Sketches  of  the  Moors  and  Span- 
iards, 1832,  "  Governor  Maneo  and  the  Soldier."] 


.mummm 


mm 


iiiiiiniinii MiiiitMi 


ssa 


■rn-. 


•m'-'n 


deposited 
,  the  friar 
ics,  which 
in  custody 
I  the  sub- 
discreetly 
ligence  of 


t  and  span- 


JAMES    FENIMORE   COOPER 


[James  Fenimore  Cooper  was  born  at  Burlington,  N.J.,  Sept.  15,  1789, 
and  .died  at  Cooperstown,  N.  Y,,  Sept.  14,  1851.  His  early  years  were 
spent  at  Cooperstown,  then  on  the  border  of,  if  not  actually  within,  the  western 
wilderness.  He  entered  Yale  College  in  1803,  and  was  dismissed  for  breach 
of  discipline  in  1805.  In  preparation  for  entering  the  navy  he  served  before 
th3  mast  on  a  merchantman  in  1806-7.  I"  i^*^  1>^  w*  appointed  midship- 
man, a  position  which  he  held  until  1810.  A  part  of  this  time  was  spent  in 
duty  on  Lakes  Champlain  and  Ontario.  From  the  time  of  his  marriage  (181 1) 
to  that  of  his  death.  Cooper's  life  was  that  of  the  gentleman  of  leisure.  The 
years  1826-33  he  spent  in  Europe,  and  at  various  times  he  lived  in  New  York 
City  and  Westchester  County.  But  his  strongest  associations  were  with  Coopers- 
town, where  he  held  large  tracts  of  land,  and  it  became  his  permanent  home. 

Cooper's  first  book.  Precaution  (1820),  owed  its  existence  to  a  careless  boast  of 
his  that  he  could  write  a  better  story  than  a  certain  British  novel  that  had  come 
under  his  eye.  Precaution  dealt  with  foreign  life,  and  Cooper's  friends  re- 
proached him  for  not  portraying  that  of  his  native  country.  Thus  incited, 
he  produced  The  Spy  (1821),  the  plot  of  which  was  laid  in  Westchester. 
The  favorable  reception  of  The  Spy  led  to  a  rapid  succession  of  remarkabU 
tales  of  romantic  adventure  on  land  and  sea,  of  which  the  more  famous  are 
The  Pioneers  (1823),  The  Pilot  (1823),  The  Last  of  the  Mohicans  (1826), 
The  Prairie  (1827),  The  Red  Rover  (1828),  The  IVater  Witch  (1830), 
The  Pathfinder  (1840),  The  Deerslayer  (1841),  The  Wing-and-Wing  (1842). 

Besides  his  novels  Cooper  wrote  a  History  of  the  Navy  of  the  United  States 
(1839),  and  several  volumes  of  biography,  history,  and  travel.  Much  of  this 
part  of  his  work  was  explicitly  or  implicitly  polemic  in  character.  He 
criticised  severely  the  manners  of  his  countrymen  and  their  methods  of 
government,  as  well  as  the  corresponding  manners  and  methods  of  European 
countries,  thus  exposing  himself  to  retaliatory  criticism,  both  at  home  and 
abroad.  For  many  years  he  was  almost  constantly  involved  in  lawsuits  and 
can  scarcely  be  said  to  have  been  beloved  by  his  countrymen  at  large.  But 
though  intolerant,  he  had  a  strong  sense  of  honor  and  justice,  and  was 
always  actuated  by  lofty  principles  and  an  unswerving  patriotism.  The  best 
biography  of  Cooper  is  that  of  T.  R.  I^ounsbury.] 

H7 


i>  lt»i  «nmi>i<|iiin  lililMitiaiMihla 


-T-vml^ 


148 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


I 


"  Cooper,  whose  name  is  with  his  country'*  woven 
First  in  her  ranks;  her  Pioneer  of  mind." 

Thfse  were  the  words  in  which  Fitz-Greene  Halleck  designated 
Cooper's  substantial  precedenc*  in  American  novel-writing.  Apart 
fioin  this  mere  priority  in  time,  he  rendered  the  unique  service  of 
inaugurating  three  especial  classes  of  fiction,  —  the  novel  of  the 
American  Revolution,  the  Indian  novel,  and  the  sea  novel.  In 
each  case  he  wrote  primarily  for  his  own  fellow-countrymen  and 
achieved  fame  first  at  their  hands ;  and  in  each  he  produced  a 
class  of  works  which,  in  spite  of  their  own  faults  and  of  the  some- 
what unconciliatory  spirit  of  their  writer,  have  secured  a  per- 
manence and  a  width  of  range  unequalled  in  the  English  language, 
save  by  Scott  alone.  To-day  the  sale  of  his  works  in  his  own 
*^*"*  language  remains  unabated;  and  one  has  only  to  look  over  the 

catalogues  of  European  booksellers  in  order  to  satisfy  himself  that 
this  popularity  continues,  undiminished,  through  the  medium  of 
translation.  It  may  be  safely  said  of  him  that  no  author  of  fiction 
in  the  English  language,  except  Scott,  has  held  his  own  so  well  for 
half  a  century  after  death.  Indeed,  the  list  of  various  editions 
and  versions  of  his  writings  in  the  catalogues  of  Gfcrman  book- 
sellers often  exceeds  that  of  Scott.  This  was  not  in  the  slightest 
degree  due  to  his  personal  qualities,  for  these  made  him  unpopular, 
nor  to  personal  manoeuvring,  for  this  he  disdained.  He  was  known 
to  refuse  to  have  his  works  even  noticed  in  a  newspaper  for  which 
he  wrote,  the  New  York  Patriot.  He  would  never  have  consented 
to  review  his  own  books,  as  both  Scott  and  Irving  did,  or  to  write 
direct  or  indirect  puffs  of  himself,  as  was  done  by  Poe  and  Whitman. 
He  was  foolishly  sensitive  to  criticism,  and  unable  to  conceal  it ; 
he  was  easily  provoked  to  a  quarrel ;  he  was  dissatisfied  both  with 
praise  or  blame,  and  speaks  evidently  of  himself  in  the  words  of 
the  hero  of  Miles  Wallingford,  when  he  says :  "  In  scarce  a  cir- 
cumstance of  my  life  that  has  brought  me  in  the  least  under  the 
cognizance  of  the  public  have  I  ever  been  judged  justly."  There 
is  no  doubt  that  he  hinis(.lf — or  rather  the  temperament  given  him 
by  nature — was  to  blame  for  this,  but  the  fact  is  unquestionable. 
Add  to  this  that  he  was,  in  his  way  and  in  what  was  unfortu- 
nately the  most  obnoxious  way,  a  reformer.    That  is,  he  was  what 


'^mmtsmm 


t^MMiti^MliSiS^J 


— n 


designated 
ing.  Apart 
I  service  of 
3vel  of  tlie 
novel.  In 
rymen  and 
produced  a 
■  the  some- 
red  a  per- 
il language, 
in  his  own 
ik  over  the 
tiniself  that 
nedium  of 
)r  of  fiction 

so  well  for 
us  editions 
man  book- 
lie  slightest 
unpopular, 
was  known 
r  for  which 
!  consented 
or  to  write 
i  Whitman, 
conceal  it ; 
d  both  with 
le  words  of 
carce  a  cir- 

under  the 
y."  There 
t  given  him 
estionable. 
fas  unfortu- 
le  was  what 


/AMES  FENIMORE  COOPER 


149 


may  be  called  a  reformer  in  the  conservative  direction,  —  he  be- 
labored his  fellow-citizens  for  changing  many  English  ways  and 
usages,  and  he  wished  them  to  change  these  things  back  again, 
immediately.     In  all  this  he  was  absolutely  unselfish,  but  utterly 
tactless ;  and  inasmuch  as  the  point  of  view  he  took  was  one  re- 
quiring the  very  greatest  tact,  the  defect  was  hopeless.     As  a  rule, 
no  man  criticises  American  ways  so  unsuccessfully  as  an  Ameri'   n 
who  has  lived   many  years  in   Europe.     The  mere  European 
critic  is  ignorant  of  our  ways  and  frankly  owns  it,  even  if  thinking 
the  fact  but  a  small  disqualification ;  while  the  American  absentee, 
having  remained  away  long  enough  to  have  forgotten  many  things 
and  never  to  have  seen  many  others,  has  dropped  hopelessly 
behindhand  as  to  the  facts,  yet  claims  to  speak  with  authority. 
Cooper  went  even  beyond  these  professional  absentees,  because, 
while  they  are  usually  ready  to  praise  other  countries  at  the 
expense  of  America,  Cooper,  with  heroic  impartiality,  dispraised 
all  countries,  or  at  least  all  that  spoke  English.     A  thoroughly 
patriotic  and  highminded  man,  he  yet  had  no  mental  perspective, 
and  made  small  matters  as  important  as  great.     Constantly  re- 
proaching America  for  not  being  Europe,  he  also  satirized  Europe 
for  being  what  it  was.     As  a  result,  he  was  for  a  time  equally 
detested  by  the  press  of  both  countries.    The  English,  he  thought, 
had  "  a  national  propensity  to  blackguardism,"  and  certainly  the 
remarks  he  drew  from  them  did  something  to  vindicate  the  charge. 
When  the  London  Times  called  him  "  affected,  offensive,  curious, 
and  ill-conditioned,"  and  Eraser's  Magazine,  "  a  liar,  a  bilious 
braggart,  a  full  jackass,  an  insect,  a  grub,  and  a  reptile,"  they 
clearly  left  little  for  America  to  say  in  that  direction.     Yet  Park 
Benjamin  did  his  best,  or  his  worst,  when  he  called  Cooper  (in 
Greeley's  New  Yorker)  "  a  superlative  dolt  and  the  common  mark 
of  scorn  and  contempt  of  every  well-informed  American  " ;  and 
so  did  Webb,  when  he  pronounced  the  novelist  "  a  base-minded 
caitiff  who  had  traduced  his  country."     Not  being  able  to  reach 
his  English  opponents,  Cooper  turned  on  these  Americans,  and 
spent  years  in  attacking  Webb  and  others  through   the  courts, 
gaining  little  and  losing  much  through  the  long  vicissitudes  of 
petty  local  lawsuits.    The  fact  has  kept  alive  their  memory ;  but 
for  Lowell's  keener  shaft,  "Cooper  has  written  six  volumes  to 


■Ami 


I  K>m>mili^ 


ISO 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


show  he's  as  good  as  a  lord,"  there  was  no  redress.  The  arrow 
lodged  and  split  the  target. 

Like  Scott  and  most  other  novelists,  Cooper  was  rarely  success- 
ful with  his  main  characters,  but  was  saved  by  his  subordinate 
ones.  These  were  strong,  fresh,  characteristic,  human ;  and  they 
lay,  as  has  been  said,  in  several  different  directions,  all  equally 
marked.  If  he  did  not  create  permanent  types  in  Harvey  Birch 
the  spy,  Leather-Stocking  the  woodsman.  Long  Tom  Coffin  the 
sailor,  Chingachgook  the  Indian,  then  there  is  no  such  thing  as 
the  creation  of  characters  in  literature.  Scott  was  far  more  pro- 
fuse and  varied,  but  he  gave  no  more  of  life  to  individual  person- 
ages and  perhaps  created  no  types  so  universally  recognized. 
What  is  most  remarkable  is  that,  in  the  case  of  the  Indian  espe- 
cially. Cooper  was  not  only  in  advance  of  the  knowledge  of  his 
own  time,  but  of  that  of  the  authors  who  immediately  followed 
him.  In  Parkman  and  Palfrey,  for  instance,  the  Indian  of  Cooper 
vanishes  and  seems  wholly  extinguished,  but  under  the  closer  in- 
spection of  Alice  Fletcher  and  Horatio  Hale,  the  lost  figure 
reappears,  and  becomes  more  picturesque,  more  poetic,  more 
thoughtful  than  even  Cooper  dared  to  make  him.  The  instinct 
of  the  novelist  turned  out  more  authoritative  than  the  premature 
conclusions  of  a  generation  of  historians. 

It  is  only  women  who  can  draw  the  commonplace,  at  least  in 
English,  and  make  it  fascinating.  Perhaps  only  two  English  wo- 
men have  done  this,  Jane  Austen  and  George  Eliot,  while  in 
France  George  Sand  has  certainly  done  it  far  less  well  than  it  has 
been  achieved  by  Balzac  and  Daudet.  Cooper  never  succeeded 
in  it  for  a  single  instant,  and  even  when  he  has  an  admiral  of  this 
type  to  write  about,  he  puts  into  him  less  of  life  than  Marryat  im- 
parts to  tlie  most  ordinary  lieutenant.  The  talk  of  Cooper's  civil- 
ian worthies  is,  as  Professor  Lounsbury  has  well  said  —  in  what  is 
perhaps  the  best  biography  yet  written  of  any  American  author  — 
"  of  a  kind  not  known  to  human  society."  This  is  doubtless  aggra- 
vated by  the  frequent  use  of  thee  and  thou,  yet  this,  which  Profes- 
sor Lounsbury  attributes  to  Cooper's  Quaker  ancestry,  was  in 
truth  a  part  of  tlie  formality  of  the  old  period,  and  is  found  also  in 
Brockden  Brown.  And  as  his  writings  conform  to  their  period  in 
this,  so  they  did  in  other  respects ;  describing  every  woman,  for 


f 
\ 

a 
1 

ii 
t 

t; 

b 
c 

S( 

n 
C 
r( 
ir 
R 
w 


^aiiiiiiiimia^^ 


**«'».• 


-fc-^^-'-^jjl 


JAMRS  FRNIMORE  COOPER 


151 


success- 
•ordinate 
and  they 
1  equally 
rey  Birch 
loffin  the 

thing  as 
nore  pro- 
1  person- 
cognized, 
ian  espe- 
ge  of  his 

followed 
af  Cooper 
closer  in- 
ost  figure 
:tic,  more 
le  instinct 
premature 

t  least  in 
iglish  wo- 

while  in 
lan  it  has 
succeeded 
ral  of  this 
arryat  im- 

ler's  civil- 
what  is 

author  — 
[less  aggra- 

;h  Profes- 
was  in 
Ind  also  in 

period  in 
Iroman,  for 


instance,  as  a  "  female  "  and  making  her  to  be  such  as  Cooper 
himself  describes  the  heroine  of  Mercedes  of  Castile  to  be  when 
he  says,  "  Her  very  nature  is  made  up  of  religion  and  female 
decorum."  Scott  himself  could  also  draw  such  inane  figures,  yet 
in  Jeanie  Deans  he  makes  an  average  Scotch  woman  heroic,  and 
in  Meg  Merrilies  and  Madge  Wildfire  he  paints  the  extreme  of 
daring  self-will.  There  is  scarcely  a  novel  of  Scott's  where  some 
woman  has  not  show^  qualities  which  approach  the  heroic  ;  while 
Cooper  scarcely  produced  one  where  a  woman  rises  even  to  the 
level  of  an  interesting  commonplaceness.  She  may  be  threatened, 
endangered,  tormented,  besieged  in  forts,  captured  by  Indians, 
but  the  same  monotony  prevails.  So  far  as  the  real  interests  of 
Cooper's  story  goes  it  might  usually  be  destitute  of  a  single 
"female,"  that  sex  appearing  chiefly  as  a  bundle  of  dry  goods 
to  be  transported,  or  as  a  fainting  appendage  to  the  skirmish. 

His  long  introductions  he  shared  with  the  other  novelists  of  the 
day,  or  at  least  with  Scott,  for  both  Miss  Austen  and  Miss  Edge- 
worth  are  more  modern  in  this  respect  and  strike  more  promptly 
into  the  tale.  His  loose-jointed  plots  are  also  shared  with  Scott, 
but  he  knows  as  surely  as  Scott  how  to  hold  the  reader's  attention 
when  once  grasped.  Like  Scott's,  too,  is  his  fearlessness  in  giving 
details,  instead  of  the  vague  generalizations  which  were  then  in 
fashion,  and  to  which  his  academical  critics  would  have  confined 
him.  He  is  indeed  already  vindicated  in  some  respects  by  the 
advance  of  the  art  he  practised ;  where  he  led  the  way,  the  best 
literary  practice  has  followed.  The  Edinburgh  Review  exhausted 
its  heavy  artillery  upon  him  for  his  accurate  descriptions  of  cos- 
tume and  localities,  and  declared  that  they  were  "  an  epilepsy  of 
t!ie  fancy  "  and  that  a  vague  general  account  would  have  been  far 
better.  "  Why  describe  the  dress  and  appearance  of  an  Indian 
chief,  down  to  his  tobacco-stopper  and  button-holes?"  We  now 
see  that  it  is  this  very  habit  which  has  made  Cooper's  Indian  a  per- 
manent figure  in  literature,  while  the  Indians  of  his  predecessor, 
Charles  Brockden  Brown,  were  merely  dusky  spectres.  "  Poetry  or 
romance,"  continued  the  Edinburgh  Revietv,  "  does  not  descend 
into  the  particulars,"  this  being  the  same  fallacy  satirized  by 
Ruskin,  whose  imaginary  painter  produced  a  quadruped  which 
was  a  generalization  between  a  pony  and  a  pig.    Balzac,  who  risked 


r 


152 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


the  details  of  buttons  ami  tobacco  pipes  as  fearlessly  as  Cooper, 
said  of  The  Pathfinder,  "  Never  did  the  art  of  writing  tread  closer 
upon  the  art  of  the  pencil.  This  is  the  school  of  study  for  liti  rary 
landscape  painters."  He  says  elsewhere :  "  If  Cooper  had  suc- 
ceeded in  the  painting  of  character  to  the  same  extent  thai  he  did 
in  the  painting  of  the  phenomena  of  nature,  he  would  have  uttered 
the  last  word  of  our  art."  Upon  such  praise  as  this  the  reputation 
of  James  Fcnimore  Cooper  may  well  rest. 

Thomas  Wentworth  HiGGiNsoN 


mmm 


as  Cooper, 
read  closer 
for  liti  rary 
er  had  sue- 
thai  he  did 
lave  uttered 
!  reputation 

[IGGINSON 


MM. 


JAMES  FENlMOKh.    COOPER  153 


HAWKEYE   AND   HIS   FMENDS 

Before  these  fipl(U  were  shorn  unci  tilled, 

•■'ull  to  the  brim  our  rivers  flowed; 
The  melody  of  waters  filled 

The  fresh  and  Ijoundless  wood ; 
And  torrents  dashed,  and  rivulets  played, 
Antt  lounlains  spouted  In  the  shade, 

Bryant. 

Leaving  the  unsuspecting  Ht^yward  and  his  confiding  com- 
panions to  penetrate  still  deeper  into  a  forest  that  contained  such 
treacherous  inmates,  we  must  use  nu  author's  privilege,  and  shift 
the  scene  a  few  miles  to  the  westward  of  the  place  where  we  have 
last  seen  them. 

On  that  day,  two  men  were  lingering  on  the  banks  of  a  small 
but  rapid  stream,  within  an  hour's  journey  of  the  encampment  of 
Webb,  like  those  who  awaited  the  appearance  of  an  absent  person, 
or  t'le  approach  of  some  expected  event.  Tlw  vast  canopy  of 
woods  spread  itself  to  the  margin  of  the  river,  overhanging  the 
water  and  shadowing  its  dark  current  with  a  deeper  hue.  The 
rays  of  the  sun  were  l)eginning  to  grow  less  fierce,  and  the  intense 
heat  of  the  day  was  lessened,  as  the  cooler  vapors  of  the  springs 
and  fountains  rose  alxjve  their  leafy  beds,  and  rested  in  the  atmos- 
phere. Still,  that  breathing  silence,  which  marks  the  drowsy  sultri- 
ness of  an  American  landscape  in  July,  pervaded  the  secluded 
spot,  interrupted  only  by  the  low  voices  of  the  men,  the  occasional 
and  lazy  tap  of  a  woodpecker,  the  discordant  cry  of  some  gaudy 
jay,  or  a  swelling  on  the  air  from  the  dull  roar  of  a  distant  water- 
fall. 

These  feeble  and  broken  sounds  were,  however,  too  familiar  to 
the  foresters  to  draw  their  attention  from  the  more  interesting 
matter  of  their  dialogue.  While  one  of  these  loiterers  showed  the 
red  skin  and  wild  accoutrements  of  a  native  of  the  woods,  the 
other  exhibited,  through' the  mask  ^  his  rmlo  and  nearly  savage 
equipments,  the  brighter,  though  sunburnt  and  long-faded  com- 
1  iexion  of  one  who  might  claim  descent  from  a  European  parent- 
age. The  former  was  seated  on  the  end  iA  a  mossy  log,  in  a 
posture  that  permitted  him  to  heighten  the  effect  of  his  earnest 


iimM 


AMERICAN  PHOSE 

langu.i^e  by  the  mini  bnl  exprt-s-dve  RPsttircs  of  an  Indian  en- 
gaged 111  debate.  His  body,  which  was  ii<;irly  Hiked,  presented  a 
terrific  emblem  of  death,  drawn  in  inltriniiij{lcd  ( ok^s  of  white 
and  black,  His  closely  shavnl  h'  id,  on  wliii  h  no  other  hair  than 
the  well-known  and  thivalroii->  st  dping  lull'  wxs  preserved,  was 
without  ornament  of  any  kind,  with  tlie  exception  of  a  solitary 
eagle's  plume  that  crossed  his  crown  uid  depended  over  the  left 
shoulder.  A  tomahawk  and  scalping-kiiife,  of  English  manufacture, 
were  in  the  girdle ;  while  a  short  military  rillc,  of  that  sort  with 
which  the  i)olicy  of  the  whites  armed  their  savage  allies,  lay  care- 
lessly across  his  bare  and  sinewy  knee.  'I'he  expar  1'  d  chest,  full- 
formed  limbs,  and  grave  countenance  of  this  warrior  would  denote 
that  he  had  reached  the  vigor  of  his  days,  though  nu  symptoms  of 
decay  appeared  to  have  yet  weakened  his  manhootl. 

The  frame  of  the  white  man,  judging  by  such  parts  as  were  not 
concealed  by  his  clothes,  was  like  that  of  one  who  had  known 
hardships  and  exertion  from  his  earliest  youth.  His  person,  though 
muscular,  was  rather  attenuated  than  full ;  but  every  nerve  and 
muscle  appeared  strung  and  indurated  by  unremitted  exposure 
and  toil.  He  wore  a  hunting-shirt  of  forest  green,  fringed  with 
faded  yellow,'  and  a  summer  cap  of  skins  which  had  been  shorn 
of  their  fur.  He  also  bore  a  knife  in  a  girdle  of  wampum,  like 
that  which  confined  the  scanty  garments  of  the  Indian,  but  no 
tomahawk.  His  moccasins  were  ornamented  after  the  gay  fash- 
ion of  the  natives,  while  the  only  part  of  his  under-dress  which 
appeared  below  the  hunting-frock  was  a  pair  of  buckskin  leggins 
that  laced  at  the  sides,  and  which  were  gartered  above  the  knees 
with  the  sinews  of  a  deer.     A  jwuch  and  horn  completed  his  per- 


1  The  North  American  warrior  caused  the  hair  to  be  plucked  from  his  whole 
body ;  a  small  tuft,  only,  was  left  on  the  crown  of  his  head  in  order  that  Ids  enemy 
might  avail  himself  of  it,  in  wrenching  off  the  scalp  in  the  event  of  his  fall.  The 
scalp  was  the  only  admissible  trophy  of  victory.  Thus,  it  was  deemed  more  impor- 
tant to  obtain  the  scalp  than  to  kill  the  man.  Some  tribes  lay  great  stress  on  the 
honor  of  striking  a  dead  body.  These  practices  have  nearly  disappeared  among 
the  Indians  of  the  Atlantic  States. 

*  The  hunling-shirt  is  a  picturesque  smock  frock,  being  shorter,  and  ornamented 
with  fringes  and  tassels.  The  colors  are  intended  to  imitate  the  hues  of  the  wood 
with  a  view  to  concealment.  Many  corps  of  American  riflemen  have  been  thus 
attired ;  md  the  dress  is  one  of  the  most  striking  of  modern  times.  The  hunling- 
shirt  is  frequently  white. 


I 


ndian  en- 

rt  sen  led  a 

of  white 

■  hair  than 
;rvc(l,  was 

a  solitary 
/cr  the  left 
inufacture, 
t  sort  with 
s,  lay  care- 
chest,  full- 
luld  denote 
mptoms  of 

as  were  not 
had  known 
son, though 

■  nerve  and 
d  exposure 
fringed  with 
been  shorn 
mpum,  like 
ian,  but  no 
le  gay  fash- 
dress  which 
kin  leggins 

the  knees 
ted  his  per- 

tjiii  bis  whole 
III  liis  enemy 
lis  fall.  The 
more  impor- 
stress  on  the 
peared  among 

id  ornamented 

cs  of  the  wood 

lave  been  thus 

The  hunting- 


JAMES  FRNtMORR   COOPER 


«55 


sonal  nccoiitretncnts,  thniigh  a  rifle  of  great  length,'  which  the 
theory  of  the  more  ingenious  whites  had  taught  them  was  the 
most  dangerous  of  all  fire-arms,  leane<l  against  a  neighlH)ring  sap- 
ling. The  eye  of  the  hunter,  or  scout,  whichever  he  might  be, 
was  small,  (inick,  keen,  and  restless,  roving  while  he  spoke,  on 
every  side  of  him,  as  if  in  (juest  of  game,  or  distrusting  the  sudden 
approach  of  some  jiirking  enemy.  Notwithstanding  these  symp- 
toms of  habitual  suspicion,  his  countenance  was  not  only  without 
guile,  but  at  the  moment  at  which  he  is  introduced,  it  was  charged 
with  an  expression  of  sturdy  honesty. 

"  Kven  your  traditions  make  the  case  in  my  favor,  Chingach- 
gook,"  he  saiti,  s|)oaking  in  the  tongue  which  was  known  to  all  the 
natives  who  formerly  inhabited  the  country  between  the  Hudson 
and  the  I'otoin.ic,  and  of  which  we  shall  give  a  free  translation  for 
the  benefit  of  the  reader;  endeavoring,  at  the  same  time,  to  pre- 
serve some  of  the  peculiarities,  both  of  the  individi'.al  and  of  the 
language.  "Your  fathers  came  from  the  setting  sun,  cros.sed  the 
big  river,'  fought  the  people  of  the  country,  and  took  the  land  ; 
and  mine  came  from  the  retl  sky  of  the  morning,  over  the  salt 
lake,  and  did  their  work  much  after  the  fashion  that  had  been  set 
them  by  yours ;  then  let  Ciod  judge  the  matter  between  us,  and 
friends  spare  their  words  !  " 

"  My  fathers  fought  with  the  naked  redmen  ! "  returned  the 
Indian,  sternly,  in  the  same  language.  "  Is  there  no  diflTerence, 
Hawkeye,  between  the  stone-headed  arrow  of  the  warrior,  and 
the  leaden  bullet  with  which  you  kill?" 

"  There  is  reason  in  an  Indian,  though  nature  has  made  him  with 
a  red  skin  ! "  said  the  white  man,  shaking  his  head  like  one  on 
whom  such  an  appeal  to  his  justice  was  not  thrown  away.  For  a 
moment  he  appeared  to  be  conscious  of  having  the  worst  of  the 
argument ;  then,  rallying  again,  he  answered  the  objection  of  his 
antagonist  in  the  best  manner  his  limited  information  would  allow : 
"  I  am  no  scholar,  and  I  care  not  who  knows  it ;  but  judging  from 

1  The  rifle  of  the  army  is  short ;  th-at  of  the  hunter  Is  always  long. 

'  The  Mississippi.  The  sccut  .ilUulcs  lo  a  tradition  which  is  very  popular 
Among  the  tribes  of  the  Atlantic  States.  Kvidcncc  of  their  Asiatic  origin  is  de- 
duced from  the  circumstances,  though  great  uncertainty  hangs  over  the  whole 
history  of  the  Indians. 


v-***- 


a*" 


MtMHMMMaiUNMiWtAH 


!/u 


* ;  if  i' 


1:1?  V 


•  %  I 


156 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


what  I  have  seen,  at  deer  chases  and  squirrel  hunts,  of  the  sparks 
below,  I  should  think  a  rifle  in  the  hands  of  their  grandfathers  was 
not  so  dangero  IS  as  a  hickory  bow  and  a  good  flint-head  might  be, 
if  drawn  with  Indian  judgment,  and  sent  by  an  Indian  eye." 

"  You  have  the  story  told  by  your  fathers,"  returned  the  other, 
coldly  waving  his  hand.  "  What  say  your  old  men  ?  Do  they  tell 
the  young  warriors  that  the  pale-faces  met  the  redmen,  painted 
for  war  and  armed  with  the  stone  hatchet  and  wooden  gun  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  a  prejudiced  man,  nor  one  who  vaunts  himself  on 
his  natural  privileges,  though  the  worst  enemy  I  have  on  earth, 
and  he  is  an  Iroquois,  daren't  deny  that  I  am  genuine  white,"  the 
scout  replied,  surveying,  with  secret  satisfaction,  the  faded  color 
of  his  bony  and  sinewy  hand  ;  "  and  I  am  willing  to  own  that  my 
people  have  many  ways  of  which,  as  an  honest  man,  I  can't  ap- 
prove. It  is  one  of  their  customs  to  write  in  books  what  thty  have 
done  and  seen,  instead  of  telling  them  in  their  villages,  where  the 
lie  can  be  given  to  the  face  of  a  cowardly  boaster,  and  the  brave 
soldier  can  call  on  his  comrades  to  witness  for  the  truth  of  his 
words.  In  consequence  of  this  bad  fashion,  a  man  who  is  too 
conscientious  to  misspend  his  days  among  the  women  in  learning 
the  names  of  black  marks,  may  never  hear  of  the  deeds  of  his 
fathers,  nor  feel  a  pride  in  striving  to  outdo  them.  For  myself,  I 
conclude  the  Bumppos  could  shoot,  for  I  have  a  natural  turn 
with  the  rifle,  which  must  have  been  handed  down  from  generation 
to  generatioii,  as,  our  holy  commandments  tell  us,  all  good  and 
evil  gifts  are  bestowed ;  though  I  should  be  loth  to  answer  for 
other  people  in  such  a  matter.  But  every  story  has  its  two  sides ; 
so  I  ask  you,  Chingachgook,  what  passed  according  to  the  tradi- 
tions of  the  redmen,  when  our  fathers  first  met?" 

A  silence  of  a  minute  succeeded,  during  which  the  Indian  sat 
mute ;  then,  full  of  the  dignity  of  his  office,  he  commenced  his 
brief  tale,  with  a  solemnity  that  served  to  heighten  its  appearance 
of  truth. 

"  Listen,  Hawkeye,  and  your  ear  shall  drink  no  lie.  'Tis  what 
my  fathers  have  said,  and  what  the  Mohicans  have  done."  He 
hesitated  a  single  instant,  and  bending  a  cautious  glance  toward 
his  companion,  he  continued,  in  a  manner  that  was  divided  be- 
tween interrogation  and  assertion,  "  Does  not  this  stream  at  our 


r 


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•  % 


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01  li 


•      V 


m^ 


e  sparks 
hers  was 
night  be, 

le  other, 
they  tell 
,  painted 
in?" 

imself  on 
on  earth, 
hite,"  the 
led  color 
1  that  my 
can't  ap- 
thcy  have 
where  the 
the  brave 
uth  of  his 
ifho  is  too 
n  learning 
eds  of  his 
■  myself,  I 
itural  turn 
generation 
good  and 
mswer  for 
two  sides ; 
the  tradi- 

Tndian  sat 
lenced  his 
ppearance 

'Tis  what 
3ne."  He 
ice  toward 
ivided  be- 
;ara  at  our 


■WMlfaflMaia 


JAMES  FENIMORE  COOPER 


157 


feet  run  toward  the  summer,  until  its  waters  grow  salt,  and  the 
current  flows  upward  ?  " 

"  It  can't  be  denied  that  your  traditions  tell  you  true  in  both  these 
matters,"  said  the  white  man ;  "  for  I  have  been  there,  and  have 
seen  them;  though  why  water,  which  is  so  sweet  in  the  shade, 
should  become  bitter  in  the  sun,  is  an  alteration  for  which  I  have 
never  been  able  to  account." 

"And  the  current?"  demanded  the  Indian,  who  expected  his 
reply  with  that  sort  of  interest  that  a  man  feels  in  the  confirma- 
tion of  testimony  at  which  he  marvels  even  while  he  respects  it ; 
"  the  fathers  of  Chingachgook  have  not  lied  !  " 

"  The  Holy  Bible  is  not  more  true,  and  that  is  the  truest  thing 
in  nature.  They  call  this  up-stream  current  the  tide,  which  is  a 
thing  soon  explained,  and  clear  enough.  Six  hours  the  waters 
run  in,  and  six  hours  they  run  out,  and  the  reason  is  this :  when 
there  is  higher  water  in  the  sea  than  in  the  river,  they  run  in,  until 
the  river  gets  to  be  the  highest,  and  then  it  runs  out  again." 

"  The  waters  in  the  woods,  and  on  the  great  lakes,  run  down- 
ward until  they  lie  like  my  hand,"  said  the  Indian,  stretching  the 
limb  horizontally  before  him,  "  and  then  they  run  no  more." 

"  No  honest  man  will  deny  it,"  said  the  scout,  a  little  nettled  at 
the  implied  distrust  of  his  explanation  of  the  mystery  of  the  tides : 
"and  I  grant  that  it  is  true  on  the  small  scale,  and  where  the 
land  is  level.  But  everything  depends  on  what  scale  you  look 
at  things.  Now,  on  the  small  scale,  the  'arth  is  level ;  but  on  the 
large  scale  it  is  round.  In  this  manner,  pools  and  ponds,  and 
even  the  great  fresh-water  lake,  may  be  stagnant,  as  you  and  I 
both  know  they  are,  having  seen  them ;  but  when  you  come  to 
spread  water  over  a  great  tract,  like  the  sea,  where  the  earth  is 
round,  how  in  reason  can  the  water  be  quiet  ?  You  might  as  well 
expect  the  river  to  He  still  on  the  brink  of  those  black  rocks  a 
mile  above  us,  though  your  own  ears  tell  you  that  it  is  tumbling 
over  them  at  this  very  moment ! " 

If  unsatisfied  by  the  philosophy  of  his  companion,  the  Indian 
was  far  too  dignified  to  betray  his  unbelief.  He  listened  like  one 
who  was  convinced,  and  resumed  his  narrative  in  his  former 
solemn  manner. 

"  We  came  from  the  place  where  the  snn  is  hid  at  night,  over 


n''ii<wii<»wiwiniiteii"iAf 


M 


158 


AMERICAN  PKOSE 


great  plains  where  the  buffaloes  live,  until  we  reached  the  big  river. 
There  we  fought  the  Alligewi,  till  the  ground  was  red  with  their 
blood.  From  the  banks  of  the  big  river  to  the  shores  of  the  sdlt 
lake,  there  was  none  to  meet  us.  The  Maquas  followed  at  a  dis- 
tance. We  said  the  country  should  be  ours  from  the  place  where 
the  water  runs  up  no  longer  on  this  stream,  to  a  river  twenty  suns' 
journey  toward  the  summer.  The  land  we  had  taken  like  warriors, 
we  kept  like  men.  We  drove  tlie  Maquas  into  the  woods  with 
the  bears.  They  only  tasted  salt  at  the  Hcks ;  they  drew  no  fish 
from  the  great  lake  :  we  threw  them  the  bones." 

"  All  this  I  have  heard  and  believe,"  said  the  white  man,  observ- 
ing that  the  Indian  paused  :  "  but  it  was  long  before  the  English 
came  into  the  country." 

"A  pine  grew  then  where  this  chestnut  now  stands.  The 
first  pale-faces  who  came  among  us  spoke  no  English.  They  came 
in  a  large  canoe,  when  my  fathers  had  buried  the  tomahawk  with 
the  redraen  around  them.  Then,  Hawkeye,"  he  continued,  be- 
traying his  deep  emotion  only  by  permitting  his  voice  to  fall  to 
those  low,  guttural  tones  which  rendered  his  language,  as  spoken  at 
times,  so  very  musical ;  "  then,  Hawkeye,  we  were  one  people, 
and  we  were  happy,  ^'he  salt  lake  gave  us  its  fish,  the  wood  its 
deer,  and  the  air  its  bin,  >.  We  took  wives  who  bore  us  children  ; 
we  worshipped  the  Great  Spirit :  and  we  kept  the  Maquas  beyond 
the  sound  of  our  songs  of  triumph." 

"  Kno>v  you  anything  of  your  own  family  at  that  time?"  de- 
manded the  white.  "  But  you  are  a  just  man,  for  an  Indian  ;  and, 
as  I  suppose  you  hold  their  gifts,  your  fathers  must  have  been  brave 
warriors,  and  wise  men  at  the  council  fire." 

"  My  tribe  is  the  grandfather  of  nations,  but  I  am  an  unmixed 
man.  The  blood  of  chiefs  is  in  my  veins,  where  it  must  stay  for- 
ever. The  Dutch  landed,  and  gave  my  people  the  fire-water; 
they  drank  until  the  heavens  and  the  earth  seemed  to  meet,  and 
they  foolishly  thought  they  had  found  the  Great  Spirit.  Then  they 
parted  with  their  land.  Foot  by  foot  they  were  driven  back  from 
the  shores,  until  I,  that  am  a  chief  and  a  sagamore,  have  never 
seen  the  sun  shine  but  through  the  trees,  and  have  never  visited  the 
graves  of  my  fathers  !  " 

"Graves  bring  solemn  feelings  over  the  mind,"  returned  the 


r 


-^ 


»ig  river, 
ith  their 
the  salt 
at  a  dis- 
:e  where 
iity  suns' 
warriors, 
lods  with 
V  no  fish 

n,  observ- 
i  English 

ds.  The 
'hey  came 
[lawk  with 
nued,  be- 
to  fall  to 
spoken  at 
le  people, 
2  wood  its 
children ; 
las  beyond 

ime?"  de- 
lian ;  and, 
)een  brave 

unmixed 
it  stay  for- 

|fire-water ; 
meet,  and 
Then  they 
back  from 

liave  never 
visited  the 

Iturned  the 


JAMES  FENIMORE   COOPER 


159 


scout,  a  good  deal  touched  at  the  calm  suffering  of  his  companion  ; 
"  and  they  often  aid  a  man  in  his  good  intentions  ;  though,  for  my- 
self, I  expect  to  leave  my  own  bones  unburied,  to  bleach  in  the 
woods,  or  to  be  torn  asunder  by  the  wolves.  But  where  are  to  be 
found  those  of  your  race  who  came  to  their  kin  in  the  Delaware 
country,  so  many  summers  since?" 

"  Where  are  the  blossoms  of  those  summers  !  —  fallen,  one  by 
one  :  so  all  of  my  family  departed,  each  in  his  turn,  to  the  land  of 
spirits.  I  am  on  the  hill-top,  and  must  go  down  into  the  valley  ; 
and  when  Uncas  follows  in  my  footsteps,  there  will  no  longer  be 
any  of  the  blood  of  the  sagamores,  for  my  boy  is  the  last  of  the 
Mohicans." 

"  Uncas  is  here  !  "  said  another  voice,  in  the  same  soft,  guttural 
tones,  near  his  elbow j  "who  speaks  to  Uncas?" 

The  white  man  loosened  his  knife  in  his  leathern  sheath,  and 
made  an  involuntary  movement  of  the  hand  toward  his  rifle,  at  this 
sudden  interruption ;  but  the  Indian  sat  composed,  and  without 
turning  his  head  at  the  unexpected  sounds. 

At  the  next  instant,  a  youthful  warrior  passed  between  them, 
with  a  noiseless  step,  and  seated  himself  on  the  bank  of  the  rapid 
stream.  No  exclamation  of  surpris-  escaped  the  father,  nor  was 
any  question  asked,  or  reply  given,  for  several  minutes  ;  each  ap- 
pearing to  await  the  moment  when  he  might  speak,  without  betray- 
ing womanish  curiosity  or  childish  impatience.  The  white  man 
seemed  to  take  counsel  from  their  customs,  and,  relinquishing  his 
grasp  of  the  rifle,  he  also  remained  silent  and  reserved.  At  length 
Chingachgook  turned  his  eyes  slowly  towards  his  son  and  de- 
manded, — 

"  Do  the  Maquas  dare  to  leave  the  print  of  their  moccasins  in 
these  woods?" 

"  I  have  been  on  their  trail,"  replied  the  young  Indian,  "  and 
know  that  they  number  as  many  as  the  fingers  of  my  two  hands; 
but  they  lie  hid,  Uke  cowards," 

"  The  thieves  are  out-lying  for  scalps  and  plunder ! "  said  the 
white  man,  whom  we  shall  call  Hawkeye,  after  the  manner  of  his 
companions.  "  That  bushy  Frenchman,  Montcalm,  will  send 
his  .spies  into  our  very  camp,  but  he  will  know  what  road  we 
travel !  " 


psSVfe, 


I 


i6o 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


"  Tis  enough  !  "  returned  the  father,  glancing  his  eye  towards  the 
setting  sun ;  "  they  shall  be  driven  like  deer  from  their  bushes. 
Hawkeye,  let  us  eat  to-night,  and  show  the  Maquas  that  wo  are 
men  to-morrow." 

"  I  am  as  ready  to  do  the  one  as  the  other ;  but  to  fight  the  Iro- 
quois 'tis  necessary  to  find  the  skulkers  ;  and  to  cat  'tis  necessary 
to  get  the  game  —  talk  of  the  devil  and  he  will  come  ;  there  is  a 
pair  of  the  biggest  antlers  I  have  seen  this  season,  moving  the  bushes 
below  the  hill !  Now,  Uncas,"  he  continued  in  a  half  whisper,  and 
laughing  with  a  kind  of  inward  sound,  like  one  who  had  learnt 
to  be  watchful,  "  I  will  bet  my  charger  three  times  full  of  powder, 
against  a  foot  of  wampum,  that  I  take  him  atwixt  the  eyes,  and 
nearer  to  the  right  than  to  the  left." 

'■  \\  ^  ^nnot  be  ! "  said  the  young  Indian,  springing  to  his  feet 
with  yo\ithful  eagerness  ;  "  all  but  the  tips  of  his  horns  are  hid  !  " 

"  He's  a  boy  !  "  said  the  white  man,  shaking  his  head  while  he 
spoke,  and  addressing  the  father.  "  Does  he  think  when  a  hunter 
sees  a  part  of  the  creatur',  he  can't  tell  where  the  rest  of  him 
should  l)e  !  " 

Adjusting  his  rifle,  he  was  about  to  make  an  exhibition  of  that 
skill  on  which  he  so  much  valued  himself,  when  the  warrior  struck 
up  the  piece  with  his  hand,  saying,  — 

"  Hawkeye  !  will  you  fight  the  Maquas?" 

"  These  Indians  know  the  nature  of  the  woods,  as  it  might  be  by 
instinct !  "  returned  the  scout,  dropping  his  rifle,  and  turning  away 
like  a  man  who  was  convinced  of  his  error.  "  I  must  leave  the 
buck  to  your  arrow,  Uncas,  or  we  may  kill  a  deer  for  them  thieves, 
the  Iroquois,  to  eat." 

The  instant  the  father  seconded  this  intimation  by  an  expressive 
gesture  of  the  hand,  Uncas  threw  himself  on  the  ground  and  ap- 
proached the  animal  with  wary  movements.  When  within  a  few 
yards  of  the  cover,  he  fitted  an  arrow  to  his  bow  with  the  utmost 
care,  while  the  antlers  moved,  as  if  their  owner  snuffed  an  enemy 
in  the  tainted  air.  In  another  moment  the  twang  of  the  cord  was 
heard,  a  white  streak  was  seen  glancing  into  the  bushes,  and  the 
wounded  buck  plunged  from  the  cover  to  the  very  feet  of  his 
hidden  enemy.  Avoiding  the  horns  of  the  infuriated  animal,  Uncas 
darted  to  his  side,  and  passed  his  "nife  across  the  throat,  when 


K^KWKS^'" 


(AtHOBit 


r 


awards  the 
;ir  bushss. 
lat  wo  aire 

;ht  the  Iro- 
i  necessarj' 
there  is  a 
the  bushes 
hisper,  and 
had  learnt 
of  powder, 
;  eyes,  and 

to  his  feet 
;  are  hid  !  " 
id  while  he 
sa  a  hunter 
est  of  him 

ion  of  that 
rrior  struck 


might  be  by 
jrning  away 
it  leave  the 
lem  thieves, 

1  expressive 
nd  and  ap- 
athin  a  few 

the  utmost 
d  an  enemy 
he  cord  was 
les,  and  the 

feet  of  his 
limal,  Uncas 
;hroat,  when 


JAMES  FENIMORE    COOPER 


I6i 


bounding  to  the  edge  of  the  river  it  fell,  dyeing  the  waters  with 
its  blood. 

"Twas  doi  e  with  Indian  skill,"  said  the  scout,  laughing  in- 
wardly, but  with  vast  satisfaction;  "and  'twas  a  pretty  sight  to 
behold  !  Though  an  arrow  is  a  near  shot,  and  needs  a  knife  to 
finish  the  work." 

"  Hugh  ! "  ejaculated  his  cc  .panion,  turning  quickly,  like  a  hound 
who  scented  game. 

"  By  the  Lord,  there  is  a  drove  of  them  !  "  exclaimed  the  scout, 
whose  eyes  began  to  glisten  with  the  ardor  of  his  usual  occupation  ; 
"  if  they  come  within  range  of  a  bullet  I  will  drop  one,  though  the 
whole  Six  Nations  should  be  lurking  within  sound  !  What  do  you 
hear,  Chingachgook  ?  for  to  my  ears  the  woods  are  dumb." 

"  There  is  but  one  deer,  and  he  is  dead,"  said  the  Indian,  bend- 
ing his  body  till  his  ear  nearly  touched  the  earth.  "  I  hear  the 
sounds  of  feet ! " 

'•  Perhaps  the  wolves  have  driven  the  buck  to  shelter,  and  are 
following  on  his  trail." 

"  No.  The  horses  of  white  men  are  coming  ! "  returned  the  other, 
raising  himself  with  dignity,  and  resuming  his  seat  on  the  log  with 
his  former  composure.  "  Hawkeye,  they  are  your  brothers ;  speak 
to  them." 

"  That  will  I,  and  in  English  that  the  king  needn't  be  ashamed 
to  answer,"  returned  the  hunter,  speaking  in  the  language  of  which 
he  boasted  ;  "  but  I  see  nothing,  nor  do  I  hear  the  sounds  of  man 
or  beast;  'tis  strange  that  an  Indian  should  understand  whi'-" 
sounds  better  than  a  man  who,  his  very  enemies  will  own,  has  no 
cross  in  his  blood,,  although  he  may  have  lived  with  the  redskins 
long  enough  to  be  suspected  !  Ha  !  there  goes  something  like  the 
cracking  of  a  dry  stick,  too  —  now  I  hear  the  bushes  move  —  yes, 
yes,  there  is  a  trampling  that  I  mistook  for  the  falls  and  —  but 
here  they  come  themselves  ;  God  keep  them  from  the  Iroquois  ! " 

[  The  Last  of  the  Mohicans,  a  narrative  of  ifs7t  1826,  chapter  3.] 


1 62  AMERICAN  PROSE 

THE   ARIEL   AND  THE   ALACRITY 

"Thus  guided  on  their  course  they  bore,  r  j.  " 

Until  tliey  nearcd  the  mainland  shore  ; 
t  When  frequent  on  the  hollow  blast, 

Wild  shouts  of  merriment  were  cast." 

Lord  of  the  Isles. 

The  joyful  shouts  and  hearty  cheers  of  the  Ariel's  crew  continued 
for  some  time  after  her  coitimander  had  reached  her  deck.  Barn- 
stable answered  the  congratulations  of  his  officers  by  cordial  shakes 
of  the  hand  ;  and  after  waiting  for  the  ebullition  of  delight  among 
the  seamen  to  subside  a  little,  he  beckoned  with  an  air  of  authority 
for  silence. 

"  I  thank  yon,  my  lads,  for  your  goo<l-will,"  he  said,  when  all 
were  gathered  around  him  in  deep  attention  :  "  they  have  given 
us  a  tough  chase,  and  if  you  had  left  us  another  mile  to  go,  we  had 
been  lost.  .That  fellow  is  a  king's  cutter ;  and  though  his  disposi- 
tion to  run  to  leeward  is  a  good  deal  mollified,  yet  he  shows  signs 
of  fight.  At  any  rate,  he  is  stripping  off  some  of  his  clothes,  which 
looks  as  if  he  were  game.  Luckily  for  us.  Captain  Manual  has 
taken  all  the  marines  ashore  with  him  (though  what  he  has  done 
with  them  or  himself,  is  a  myster}-).  or  we  should  have  had  our 
decks  lumbered  with  live  cattle ;  but,  as  it  is,  we  have  a  good 
wo  king  breeze,  tolerably  smooth  water,  and  a  dead  match  !  There 
is  a  sort  of  national  obligation  on  us  to  whip  that  fellow ;  and 
therefore,  without  more  words  about  the  matter,  let  us  turn  to  and 
do  it,  that  we  may  get  our  breakfasts." 

To  this  specimen  of  marine  eloquence  the  crew  cheered  as 
usual,  the  young  men  burning  for  the  combat,  and  the  few  old 
sailors  who  belonged  to  the  schooner  shaking  their  heads  with  in- 
finite satisfaction,  and  swearing  by  sundry  strange  oaths  that  their 
captain  "  could  talk,  when  there  was  need  of  such  a  thing,  like  the 
best  dictionary  that  ever  was  launched. " 

During  this  short  harangue,  and  the  subsequent  comments,  the 
Ariel  had  been  kept  under  a  cloud  of  canvas,  as  near  to  the  wind 
as  she  could  lie ;  and  as  this  was  her  best  sailing,  she  had  stretched 
swiftly  out  from  the  land  to  a  distance  whence  the  cliffs,  and  the 
soldiers  who  were  spread  alcrig  their  suiumits,  became  plainly 


T 


'■;«;«■ 


JAMES  FENIMORE   COOPER 


163 


continued 
:k.  Barn- 
iial  shakes 
;ht  among 
•f  authority 

1,  when  all 
have  given 
go,  we  had 
his  disposi- 
ihows  signs 
thes,  which 
Vlanual  has 
e  has  done 
ve  had  our 
ive  a  good 
:h !    There 
fellow ;  and 
turn  to  and 

cheered  as 
le  few  old 
ds  with  in- 
that  their 
ing,  like  the 

nments,  the 

to  the  wind 

d  stretched 

ffs,  and  the 

lame  plainly 


visible.  BarnstaVile  turned  his  glass  repeatedly,  from  the  cutter  to 
the  shore,  as  different  feelings  predominated  in  his  breast,  before 
he  again  spoke. 

"  If  Mr.  Griffith  is  stowed  away  among  those  rocks,"  he  at 
length  said,  "  he  shall  see  as  pretty  an  argument  discussed,  in  as 
few  words,  as  he  ever  listened  to,  provided  the  gentlemen  in  yon- 
der cutter  have  not  changed  their  minds  as  to  the  road  they  intend 
to  journey  —  what  think  you,  Mr.  Merry?" 

"  I  wish  with  all  my  heart  and  soul,  sir,"  returned  the  fearless 
boy,  "  that  Mr.  Griffith  was  safe  aboard  us ;  it  seems  the  country 
is  alarmed,  and  God  knows  what  will  happen  if  he  is  taken  !  As 
to  the  fellow  to  windward,  he'll  find  it  easier  to  deal  with  the 
Ariel's  boat  than  with  her  mother ;  but  he  carries  a  broad  sail ;  I 
question  if  he  means  to  show  play." 

"  Never  doubt  him,  boy,"  said  Barnstable,  "  he  is  working  off 
the  shore,  like  a  man  of  sense,  and  besides,  he  has  his  spectacles 
on,  trying  to  make  out  what  tribe  of  Yankee  Indians  we  belong  to. 
You'll  see  him  come  to  he  wind  presently,  and  send  a  few  pieces 
of  iron  wn  this  way;  by  way  of  letting  us  know  where  to  find 
him.  Mucii  as  I  like  your  first  lieutenant,  Mr.  Merry,  I  would  rather 
leave  him  on  the  land  this  day,  than  see  him  on  my  decks.  I  want 
no  fighting  captain  to  work  this  boat  for  me  !  But  tell  the  drum- 
mer, sir,  to  beat  to  quarters." 

The  boy,  who  was  staggering  under  the  weight  of  his  melodious 
instrument,  had  been  expecting  this  command,  and  without  waiting 
for  the  midshipman  to  communicate  the  order,  he  commenced 
that  short  rub-a-dub  air,  that  will  at  any  time  rouse  a  thousand  men 
from  the  deepest  sleep,  and  cause  them  to  fly  to  their  means 
of  offense  with  a  common  soul.  The  crew  of  the  Ariei  had  been 
collected  in  groups,  studying  the  appearance  of  the  enemy,  crack- 
ing their  jokes,  and  waiting  only  for  this  usual  order  to  repair  to 
the  guns ;  and  at  the  first  tap  of  the  drum,  they  spread  with 
steadiness  to  the  different  parts  of  the  little  vessel,  where  their 
various  duties  called  them.  The  cannon  were  surrounded  by 
small  parties  of  vigorous  and  athletic  young  men  ;  the  few  marines 
were  drawn  up  in  array  with  muskets ;  the  officers  appeared  in 
their  boarding-caps,  with  pistols  stuck  in  their  belts,  and  naked 
sabres  in  their  hands.     Barnstable  paced   his  little  quarter-deck 


1 64 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


with  a  firm  tread,  dangling  a  speaking-tnimpct  by  its  lanyard  on 
his  forefinger,  or  occasionally  applying  the  gluss  to  his  eye,  which, 
when  not  in  use,  was  placed  under  one  arm,  w'lile  his  sworJ  was 
resting  against  the  foot  of  the  mainmast ;  a  [niir  of  heavy  ship's 
pistols  were  thrust  into  his  belt  also  ;  and  piles  of  muskets,  board- 
ing-pikes, and  naked  sabres  were  placed  on  diflerent  parts  of  the 
deck.  The  laugh  of  the  seamen  was  heard  no  longer ;  and  those 
who  spoke  uttered  their  thoughts  only  in  low  i.nd  indistinct  whis- 
pers. 

The  English  cutter  held  her  way  from  the  land  until  she  got  an 
offing  of  more  than  two  miles,  when  she  reduced  her  sails  to  a  yet 
smaller  number ;  and  heaving  into  the  wind,  she  fired  a  gun  in  a 
direction  opposite  to  that  which  pointed  to  the  Ariel. 

"  Now  I  would  wager  a  quintal  of  codfish.  Master  Coffin,"  said 
Barnstable,  "  against  the  best  cask  of  porter  that  was  ever  brewed 
in  England,  that  fellow  believes  a  Yankee  schooner  can  fly  in  the 
wind's  eye  ! .  If  he  wishes  to  speak  to  us,  why  don't  he  give  his 
cutter  a  little  sheet  and  come  down  ?  " 

The  cockswain  had  made  his  arrangements  for  the  combat  with 
much  more  method  and  philosophy  than  any  other  man  in  the 
vessel.  When  the  drum  beat  to  quarters,  he  threw  aside  his  jacket, 
vest,  and  shirt,  with  as  little  hesitation  as  if  he  stood  under  an 
American  sun,  and  with  all  the  discretion  of  a  man  who  had  en- 
gaged in  an  undertaking  that  required  the  free  use  of  his  utmost 
powers.  As  he  was  known  to  be  a  privileged  individual  in  the 
Arte/,  and  one  whose  opinions,  in  all  matters  of  seamanship,  were 
regarded  as  oracles  by  the  crew,  and  were  listened  to  by  his  com- 
mander with  no  little  demonstration  of  respect,  the  question  ex- 
cited no  surprise.  He  was  standing  at  the  breech  of  his  long  gun, 
with  his  brawny  arms  folded  on  a  breast  that  had  been  turned  to 
the  color  of  blood  by  long  exposure,  his  grizzled  locks  fluttering  in 
the  breeze,  and  his  tall  form  towering  far  above  the  heads  of  all 
near  him. 

"  He  hugs  the  wind,  sir,  as  if  it  was  his  sweetheart,"  was  his 
answer ;  "  but  he'll  let  go  his  hold  soon  ;  and  if  he  don't,  we  can 
find  a  way  to  make  him  fall  to  leeward.' 

"  Keep  a  good  full ! "  cried  the  commander,  in  a  stern  voice ; 
"  and  let  the  vessel  go  through  the  water.     That  fellow  walks  well. 


JAMES  FF.NntORF.    COOPER 


165 


anyard  on 

ye,  which, 
5woru  was 
avy  ship's 
5ts,  board- 
irts  of  the 
and  those 
tinct  whis- 

she  got  an 
ils  to  a  yet 
I  gun  in  a 

)ffin,"  said 

■er  brewed 

fly  in  the 

le  give  his 

ambat  with 
nan  in  the 
his  jacket, 
i  under  an 
10  had  en- 
his  utmost 
lual  in  the 
nship,  were 
ly  his  com- 
uestion  ex- 
is  long  gun, 
I  turned  to 
fluttering  in 
leads  of  all 

t,"  was  his 
)n't,  we  can 

tern  voice ; 
walks  well, 


long  Tom ;  but  we  are  too  much  for  him  on  a  towline ;  though, 
if  he  continue  to  draw  ahead  in  this  manner,  it  will  be  night  be- 
fore we  can  get  alongside  him." 

"  Aye,  aye,  sir,"  returned  the  cockswain  ;  "  them  cutters  carries 
a  press  of  canvas  when  they  seem  to  have  but  little  ;  their  gaffs  are 
all  the  same  as  young  booms,  and  spread  a  broad  head  to  their 
mainsails.  But  it's  no  hard  matter  to  knock  a  few  cloths  out 
of  their  bolt-ropes,-  when  she  will  '-  -h  drop  astarn  and  to  lee- 
ward." 

"  I  believe  there  is  good  sense  in  your  scheme  this  time,"  said 
Barnstable  ;  "  for  I  am  anxious  about  the  frigate's  people  —  though 
I  hate  a  noisy  chase ;  speak  to  him,  Tom,  and  let  us  see  if  he  will 
answer." 

"  Aye,  aye,  sir,"  cried  the  cockswain,  sinking  his  body  in  such  a 
manner  as  to  let  his  head  fiili  to  a  level  with  the  cannon  that  he 
controlled,  when,  after  divers  orders,  and  sundry  movements  to 
govern  the  direction  of  the  piece,  he  applied  a  match,  with  a 
rapid  motion,  to  the  nriming.  An  immense  body  of  white  smoke 
rushed  from  the  muzzle  of  the  cannon,  followed  by  a  sheet  of 
vivid  fire,  until,  losing  its  power,  it  yielded  to  the  wind,  and  as  it 
rose  from  the  water,  spread  like  a  cloud,  and,  passing  through  the 
masts  of  the  schooner,  was  driven  far  to  leeward,  and  soon  blended 
in  the  mists  which  were  swiftly  scudding  before  the  fresh  breezes 
of  the  ocean. 

Although  many  curious  eyes  were  watching  this  beautiful  sight 
from  the  cliffs,  there  was  too  little  of  novelty  in  the  exhibition  to 
attract  a  single  look  of  the  crew  of  the  schooner,  from  the  more 
important  examination  of  the  effect  of  the  shot  on  their  enemy. 
Barnstable  sprung  lightly  on  a  gun,  and  watched  the  instant  when 
the  ball  would  strike,  with  keen  interest,  while  long  Tom  threw 
himself  aside  from  tlic  line  of  the  smoke  with  a  similar  intention ; 
holding  one  of  his  long  arn  s  extended  towards  his  namesake,  with 
a  finger  on  the  vent,  and  supporting  his  frame  by  placing  the  hand 
of  the  other  on  the  deck,  as  his  eyes  glanced  through  an  opposite 
port-hole,  in  an  attitude  t.iat  most  men  might  have  despaired  of 
imitating  with  succpjS. 

''  There  go  llie  chips  ! "  cried  Barnstable.  "  Bravo  !  Master 
Coffin,  you  never  planted  iron  in  the  ribs  of  an  Englishman  with 


«l 


1 66 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


more  judgment.     Let  him  have  another  piece  of  it ;  and  if  he  like 
the  sport,  we'll  play  a  game  of  long  bowls  with  him  ! " 

"Aye,  aye,  sir,"  returned  the  cockswain,  who,  the  instant  he 
witnessed  the  effects  of  his  shot,  had  returned  to  superintend  the 
reloailing  of  his  gun  ;  "  if  he  holds  on  half  an  hour  longer,  I'll  dub 
him  down  to  our  own  size,  when  we  can  close,  and  make  an  even 
fight  of  it." 

The  drum  of  the  Englishman  was  now  for  the  first  time  heard 
rattling  across  the  waters,  and  echoing  the  call  to  quarters  that  had 
already  proceeded  from  the  Ariel. 

"Ah  !  you  have  sent  him  to  his  guns  !"  said  Barnstable;  "we 
shall  now  hear  more  of  it;  wake  him  up,  Tom  —  wake  him 
up." 

"  We  shall  start  him  on  end,  or  put  him  to  sleep  altogether, 
shortly,"  said  the  deliberate  cockswain,  who  never  allowed  himself 
to  be  at  all  hurried,  even  by  his  commander.  "  My  shot  are  pretty 
much  like  a  shoal  of  porpoises,  and  commonly  sail  in  each  other's 
wake.  Standby — heave  her  breech  forward — so;  get  out  of  that, 
you  damned  young  reprobate,  and  let  my  harpoon  alone  I " 

"What  are  you  at,  there.  Master  Coffin?"  cried  Barnstable; 
"are  you  tongue-tied?" 

"  Here's  one  of  the  boys  skylarking  with  my  harpoon  in  the  lee- 
scuppers,  and  by-and-by,  when  1  shall  want  it  most,  there'll  be  a 
no-man's-land  to  hunt  for  it  in." 

"  Never  mind  the  boy,  Tom  ;  send  him  aft  here  to  me  and  I'll 
polish  his  behavior  ;  give  the  Englishman  some  more  iron." 

"  I  want  the  little  villain  to  pass  up  my  cartridges,"  returned  the 
angry  old  seaman ;  "  but  if  you'll  be  so  good,  sir,  as  to  hit  him  a 
crack  or  two,  now  and  then,  as  he  goes  by  you  to  the  magazine, 
the  monkey  will  learn  his  manners  and  the  schooner's  work  will  be 
all  the  better  done  for  it.  A  young  herring-faced  monkey !  to 
meddle  with  a  tool  ye  don't  know  the  use  of.  If  your  parents  had 
spent  more  of  their  money  on  your  edication,  and  less  on  your 
outfit,  you'd  ha'  been  a  gentleman  to  what  ye  are  now." 

"  Hurrah  !  Tom,  hurrah  ! "  cried  Barnstable,  a  little  impatiently ; 
"  is  your  namesake  never  to  open  his  throat  again  !  " 

"  Aye,'  aye,  sir ;  all  ready,"  grumbled  the  cockswain ;  "  depress 
a  little ;  so  —  so ;  a  danmed  young  baboon-behaved  curmudgeon ; 


■■I 


JAMES  FENIMORE   COOPER 


167 


I  if  he  like 

instant  he 
intend  the 
jr,  I'll  dub 
e  an  even 

imc  heard 
rs  that  had 

able;  "we 
wake   him 

altogether, 
ed  himself 
:  are  pretty 
ich  other's 
out  of  that, 
e!" 
3arnstable ; 

in  the  lee- 
ere'll  be  a 

me  and  I'll 
•on." 

:turned  the 
hit  him  a 
magazine, 
rark  will  be 
lonkey !  to 
jarents  had 
ss  on  your 

upatiently ; 

;  "depress 
rmudgeon ; 


overhaul  that  forward  fall   more;    stand  by  with  your  match 

but  I'll  pay  him  !  — fire  !"  'I'his  was  the  actual  commencement 
of  the  fight ;  for  is  the  shot  of  I'om  Coffin  travelled,  as  he  had  inti- 
mated, very  much  in  the  same  direction,  their  enemy  found  the 
sport  becoming  too  hot  to  be  endured  in  silence,  and  the  report 
of  the  s< .  on^l  gun  from  the  Ariel  was  instantly  followed  by  that 
of  the  whole  broadside  of  the  Alacrity.  The  shot  of  the  cutter 
flew  in  a  very  good  direction,  but  her  guns  were  too  light  to  give 
them  efficiency  at  that  distance ;  and  as  one  or  two  were  hearil  to 
strike  against  the  bends  of  the  schooner,  and  fall  back,  innocuously, 
into  the  water,  the  cockswain,  whose  good-humor  became  gradually 
restored  as  the  combat  thickened,  remarked  with  his  customary 
apathy : 

"Them  count  for  no  more  than  love-taps  —  does  the  English- 
man think  that  we  are  firing  salutes  ! "  , ,      i 

"  Stir  him  up,  Tom  1  every  blow  you  give  him  will  help  to  open 
his  eyes,"  cried  Barnstable,  rubbing  his  hands  with  glee,  as  he 
witnessed  the  success  of  his  efforts  to  close. 

Thus  far  the  cockswain  and  his  crew  had  the  fight,  on  the  part 
of  the  Ariel,  altogether  to  themselves,  the  men  who  were  stationed 
at  the  smaller  and  shorter  guns  standing  in  perfect  idleness  by  their 
sides ;  but  in  ten  or  fifteen  minutes  the  commander  of  the  Alacrity, 
who  had  been  staggered  by  the  weight  of  the  shot  that  had  struck 
him,  found  that  it  was  no  longer  in  his  power  to  retreat,  if  he 
wished  it ;  when  he  decided  on  the  only  course  that  was  left  for  a 
brave  man  to  pursue,  and  steered  boldly  in  such  a  direction  as 
would  soonest  bring  him  in  contact  with  his  enemy,  without  expos- 
ing his  vessel  to  be  raked  by  his  fire.  Barnstable  watched  each 
movement  of  his  foe  with  eagle  eyes,  and  when  the  vessel  had  got 
within  a  lessened  distance,  he  gave  the  order  for  a  general  fire  to 
be  opened.  The  action  now  grew  warm  and  spirited  on  both  sides. 
The  power  of  the  wind  was  counteracted  by  the  constant  explosion 
of  the  cannon  ;  and,  instead  of  driving  rapidly  to  leeward,  a  white 
canopy  of  curling  smoke  hung  above  the  Ariel,  or  rested  on  the 
water,  lingering  in  her  wake,  so  as  to  mark  the  path  by  which  she 
was  approaching  to  a  closer  and  still  deadlier  struggle.  The  shouts 
of  the  young  sailors,  as  they  handled  their  instruments  of  death, 
became  more  animated  and  fierce,  while  the  cockswain  pursued 


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IMAGE  EVALUATION 
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1 68 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


his  occupation  with  the  silence  and  skill  of  one  who  labored  in  a 
regular  vocation.  IJarnstable  was  unusually  composed  and  quiet, 
maintaining  the  grave  deportment  of  a  commander  on  whom  rested 
the  fortunes  of  the  contest,  at  the  same  time  that  his  dark  eyes 
were  dani-Iug  «ith  the  fire  of  suppressed  animation. 

"  Give  it  them  ! "  he  occasionally  cried,  in  a  voice  that  might 
be  heard  amid  the  bellowing  of  the  cannon ;  "  never  mind  their 
cordage,  my  lads  ;  drive  home  their  bolts,  and  make  your  marks 
below  their  ridge-ropes." 

In  the  mean  time  the  Englishman  played  a  manful  game. 

He  had  suffered  a  heavy  loss  by  the  distant  cannonade,  which 
no  metal  he  possessed  could  retort  upon  his  enemy;  but  he 
struggled  nobly  to  repair  the  error  in  jr.dgment  with  which  he  had 
begun  the  contest.  The  two  vessels  gradually  drew  nigher  to  each 
other,  until  they  both  entered  into  the  common  cloud  created  by 
their  fire,whicli  thickened  and  spread  around  them  in  such  a  man- 
ner as  to  conceal  their  dark  hulls  from  the  gaze  of  the  curious  and 
interested  spectators  on  the  cliffs.  The  heavy  reports  of  the  can- 
non were  now  mingled  with  the  rattling  of  muskets  and  pistols,  and 
streaks  of  fire  might  be  seen  glancing  like  flashes  of  lightning 
through  the  white  cloud  which  enshiouded  the  combatants;  and 
many  minutes  of  painful  uncertainty  followed,  before  the  deeply- 
interested  soldiers,  who  were  gazing  at  the  scene,  discovered  on 
whose  banners  victory  had  alighted. 

V/e  shall  follow  the  combatants  into  their  misty  wreath,  and 
display  to  the  reader  the  events  as  they  occurred. 

The  fire  of  the  Ariel  was  much  the  most  quick  and  deadly,  both 
because  she  had  suffered  less,  and  her  men  were  less  exhausted ; 
and  the  cutter  stood  desperately  on  to  decide  the  combat,  after 
grappling,  hand  to  hand.  Barnstable  anticipated  her  intention, 
and  well  imderstood  her  commander's  reason  for  adopting  this 
course ;  but  he  was  not  a  man  to  calculate  coolly  his  advantages, 
when  pride  and  daring  invited  him  to  a  more  severe  trial.  Accord- 
ingly, he  met  the  enemy  half-way,  and  as  the  vessels  rushed  to- 
gether, the  stern  of  the  schooner  was  secured  to  the  bows  of  the 
cutter,  by  the  joint  efforts  of  both  parties.  The  voice  of  the  Eng- 
lish commander  was  now  plainly  to  be  heard,  in  the  uproar,  calling 
to  his  men  to  follow  him. 


3  labored  in  a 

sed  and  quiet, 

>n  whom  rested 

his  dark  eyes 

ice  that  might 
ver  mind  their 
ke  your  marks 

ul  game, 
inonade,  which 
nemy ;  but  he 
h  which  he  had 
r  nigher  to  each 
3ud  created  by 
1  in  such  a  man- 
the  curious  and 
)rts  of  the  can- 
and  pistols,  and 
es  of  lightning 
)mbatants ;  and 
fore  the  deeply- 
,  discovered  on 

ity  wreath,  and 

md  deadly,  both 
less  exhausted ; 
le  combat,  after 
1  her  intention, 
ir  adopting  this 
his  advantages, 
e  trial.  Accord- 
ssels  rushed  to- 
;he  bows  of  the 
Dice  of  the  Eng- 
e  uproar,  calling 


i 


JAMES  FEN IM ORE    COOPER 


169 


"  Away  there,  boarders !  repel  boarders  on  the  starboard 
quarter  !  "  shouted  Barnstable  tiirough  his  trumpet. 

This  was  the  last  order  that  the  gallant  young  sailor  gave  with 
this  instrument ;  for,  as  he  ■■poke,  he  cast  it  from  him,  and,  seizing 
his  sal)re,  flew  to  the  spot  where  the  enemy  was  about  to  make  his 
most  desperate  effort.  The  shouts,  execrations,  and  tauntings  of 
the  combatants,  now  succeeded  to  the  roar  of  the  cannon,  which 
could  be  used  no  longer  with  effect,  though  the  fight  was  still 
maintained  with  spirited  discharges  of  the  small-arms. 

"Sweep  him  from  his  decks  !"  cried  the  English  commander,  as 
he  appeared  on  his  own  bulwarks,  surrounded  by  a  dozen  of  his 
bravest  men  ;  "  drive  the  rebellious  dogs  into  the  sea  !  " 

"Away  there,  marines  !"  retorted  IJarnstable,  firing  his  pistol  at 
the  advancing  enemy ;  "  leave  not  a  man  of  them  to  sup  his  grog 
again." 

The  tremendous  and  close  volley  that  succeeded  this  order, 
nearly  accomplished  the  command  of  Barnstable  to  the  letter,  and 
the  commander  of  the  Alacrity,  perceiving  that  he  stood  alone, 
reluctantly  fell  back  on  the  deck  of  his  own  vessel,  in  order  to 
bring  on  his  men  once  more. 

"  Board  her  !  gray-beards  and  boys,  idlers  and  all  ! "  shouted 
Barnstable,  springing  in  advance  of  his  crew;  a  powerful  arm 
arrested  the  movement  of  the  dauntless  seaman,  and  before  he  had 
-ime  to  recover  himself,  he  was  drawn  violently  back  to  his  own 
vessel  by  the  irresistible  g.asp  of  his  cockswain. 

"The  fellow's  in  his  flurry,"  said  Tom,  "and  it  wouldn't  be  wise 
to  go  within  reach  of  his  flukes  ;  but  I'll  just  step  ahead  and  give 
him  a  set  with  my  harpoon." 

Without  waiting  for  a  reply,  the  cockswain  reared  his  tail  frame 
on  the  bulwarks,  and  was  in  the  attitude  of  stepping  on  board  of 
his  enemy,  when  a  sea  separated  the  vessels,  and  he  fell  with  a 
heavy  dash  of  the  waters  into  the  ocean.  As  twenty  muskets  and 
pistols  were  discharged  at  the  instant  he  appeared,  the  crew  of 
the  Ariel  supposed  his  fall  to  be  occasioned  by  his  wounds,  and 
were  rendered  doubly  fierce  by  the  sight,  and  the  cry  of  their 
commander  to  — 

"  Revenge  long  Tom  !  board  her  !  long  Tom  or  death  !  " 

They  threw  themselves  forward  in  irresistible  numbers,  and  forced 


i 


I/O 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


a  passage,  with  much  bloodshed,  to  the  forecastle  of  the  Alacrity. 
The  Englishman  was  overpowered,  but  still  rcmaine>l  undaunted 
—  he  rallied  his  crew,  and  bore  up  most  gallantly  to  the  fray. 
Thrusts  of  pikes  and  blows  of  sabres  were  becoming  close  and 
deadly,  while  muskets  and  pistols  were  constantly  dischargeil  by 
those  who  were  kept  at  a  distance  by  the  pressure  of  the  throng  of 
closer  combatants. 

Barnstable  led  his  men  in  advance,  and  became  a  mark  of  pecul- 
iar vengeance  to  his  enemies,  as  they  slowly  yielded  before  his 
vigorous  assaults.  Chance  had  placed  tlie  two  commanders  on 
opposite  sides  of  the  cutter's  dec'-,  and  the  victory  seemed  to  incline 
toward  either  party,  wherever  these  daring  officers  directed  the 
struggle  in  person.  Hut  the  p]nglishman,  perceiving  that  the 
ground  he  maintained  in  person  was  lost  elsewhere,  made  an 
effort  to  restore  the  battle,  by  changing  his  position,  followed  by 
one  or  two  of  his  best  men.  A  marine,  who  preceded  him,  leveled 
his  musket  within  a  few  feet  of  the  head  of  the  American  com- 
mander, and  was  about  to  fire,  when  Merry  glided  among  the 
combatants,  and  passed  his  dirk  into  the  body  of  the  man,  who 
fell  at  the  blow ;  shaking  his  piece,  with  horrid  imprecations,  the 
wounded  soldier  prepared  to  deal  his  vengeance  on  his  youthful 
assailant,  when  th^  fearless  boy  leaped  within  its  muzzle,  and 
buried  his  own  keen  weapon  in  his  heart. 

"  Hurrah  !  "  shouted  the  unconscious  Barnstable,  from  the  edge 
of  the  quarter-deck,  where,  attended  by  a  few  -'?n,  he  was  driving 
all  before  him.     "  Revenge  !  —  long  Tom  and  victory  !  " 

"We  have  them  !"  exclaimed  the  P^nglishman  ;'•  handle  your 
pikes  1  we  have  them  between  two  Pres." 

The  battle  would  probably  have  terminated  very  differently  from 
what  previous  circumstances  had  indicated,  had  not  a  wild-looking 
figure  appeared  in  the  cutter's  channels  at  that  moment,  issuing 
from  the  sea,  and  gainmg  the  deck  at  the  same  instant.  It  was 
long  Tom,  with  his  iron  visage  rendered  fierce  by  his  previous  dis- 
comfiture, and  his  grizzled  locks  drenched  with  the  briny  element 
from  which  he  had  ri=jen,  looking  like  Neptune  with  his  trident. 
Without  speaking,  he  poised  his  harpoon,  and,  with  a  i)owerful 
effort,  pinned  the  unfortunate  Englishman  to  the  mast  of  his  own 
vessel. 


■  the  Alacrity. 
L'vl  undaunted 
t  to  the  fray, 
ing  close  and 
lischargeil  by 
the  throng  of 

nark  of  pecul- 
led  before  his 
mnianders  on 
ined  to  incUne 
i  directed  the 
ving  that  the 
ere,  made  an 
11,  followed  by 
d  him,  leveled 
merican  corn- 
id  among  the 
the  man,  who 
irecations,  the 
n  his  youthful 
3  muzzle,  and 

from  the  edge 
he  was  driving 
ry!" 
''handle  your 

lifferently  from 
a  wild- looking 
oment,  issuing 
istant.  It  was 
s  previous  dis- 
briny  element 
h  his  trident, 
th  a  powerful 
1st  of  his  own 


JAMES  FEN  I  MORE    COOPER 


171 


"  Starn  all !  "  cried  Tom  by  a  sort  of  instinct,  when  the  blow 
was  struck;  and  catching  up  the  musket  of  the  fallen  marine,  he 
de.^It  out  terrible  and  fatal  blows  with  its  butt  on  all  who  ap- 
pioached  him,  utterly  disregarding  the  use  of  the  bayonet  on  its 
muzzle.  The  unfortunate  commander  of  the  Alacrity  brandished 
his  sword  with  frantic  gestures,  while  his  eyes  rolled  in  horrid 
.vildness,  when  he  writhed  for  an  instant  in  his  passing  agonies, 
and  then,  as  his  head  dropped  lifeless  upon  his  gored  breast,  he 
hung  agaip=f  the  spar,  a  spectacle  of  dismay  to  his  crew.  A  few 
of  the  Englishmen  stood  chained  to  the  spot  in  silent  horror  at  the 
sight,  but  most  of  them  fled  to  their  lower  deck,  or  hastened  to 
conceal  themselves  in  the  secret  parts  of  the  vessel,  leaving  to  the 
Americans  the  undisputed  possession  of  the  Alacrity. 

[  The  Pilot,  a  Fait  of  the  Sea,  1823,  chapter  18.] 


WILLIAM    HICKLING  PRESCOTT 


rvN'iViiam  Hickling  I'rcscott  was  Ijorn  in  Salem,  May  4,  1796,  and  died  in 
Boston,  Jan.  28,  1859.  His  life  wa',  quiet  and  uneventful.  He  was  a  student 
and  a  man  of  letters,  an<l  he  was  also  greatly  eonlined  by  the  results  of  an  acci- 
dent to  one  of  his  eyes.  His  historical  work  was  carried  on  against  tremendous 
difficulties ;  he  could  hardly  read  at  all  and  wrote  only  on  a  noctograph.  In 
spite  of  all  these  obstacles  he  published  Ferdinaud  and  Isabella,  in  1838  ;  Tht 
Coiiqiiesl  of  Mexico,  in  1843  ;  The  Conquest  of  Peru,  in  1847  J  «"'•  /'//'///  Ike 
Second,  in  1855-58,  as  well  as  a  volume  of  essays.  His  works  were  eagerly 
read;  they  also  gave  him  a  very  high  reputation  amom;  scholars.  He  was 
elected  corresponding  member  of  the  French  Institute  and  of  the  loyal 
Society  of  Berlin,  and  received  the  honorary  degree  of  D.C.L.  from  Oxford. 
A  Life  of  Prescott  (1864)  was  written  by  his  friend  George  Ticknor.] 

The  chief  merits  of  Prescott  as  a  historian  are  breadth  and 
accuracy  of  information  and  impartiality  of  judgment.  As  a 
writer  he  has  qualities  which  harmonize  well  with  such  character- 
istics :  he  has  the  classic  excellencies  of  style.  He  is  not  so  very 
suggestive,  animated,  sympathetic :  his  virtues  are  strength,  out- 
line, form. 

And  these  excellencies  Prescott  has  to  a  very  considerable  degree. 
He  was  passionate  for  knowledge  of  his  subject,  for  power.  Sparks 
had  already  shown  American  students  the  necessity  of  exhaustive 
material.  History  was  no  longer  a  matter  for  any  honest  gentle- 
man who  felt  impelled  to  write,  as  Gibbon  remarked,  and  had  the 
needful  paper  and  ink.  Bancroft,  Pr.'scott,  Motley,  Parkman,  were, 
first  and  foremost,  investigators.  They  not  only  accumulated  in 
their  libraries  everything  in  print  which  bore  on  their  subjects,  but 
they  had  their  copyists  at  work  in  the  archives  of  all  Europe.  They 
wrote  from  contemporary  authorities,  when  they  could  get  them, 
and  always  wrote  as  original  students.  Prescott  was  the  great 
champion  of  footnotes.  Almost  one-third  of  his  good-sized  vol- 
umes was  made  up  of  titles  and  quotations,  which,  as  they  were  in 
Spanish,  were  entirely  unintelligible  to  the  greater  number  of  those 
who  admired  his  romance  and  his  style. 

172 


WILLIAM   UICKLING   PRESCOTT 


173 


OTT 

^96,  and  died  in 
[e  was  a  student 
■suits  of  an  acci- 
inst  tremendous 
Hectograph.  In 
a,  in  1838;  The 
;  AxiA  Philip  the 
ks  were  eagerly 
lolars.  lie  was 
1  of  the  I  oyal 
,L.  from  Oxford. 
:knor.] 

breadth  and 
ment.  As  a 
ich  character- 
is  not  so  very 
strength,  out- 

ierable  degree, 
ower.  Sparks 
of  exhaustive 
honest  gentle- 
\,  and  had  the 
'ariiman,  were, 
ccumulated  in 
ir  subjects,  but 
Europe.  They 
)uld  get  them, 
was  the  great 
50od-sized  vol- 
ts they  were  in 
imber  of  those 


Prescott  was  master  of  his  voluminous  material.  But  not  only 
that,  he  had  also  in  mind  a  very  definite  conception  of  what  form 
that  material  was  to  take.  He  was  no  Barante,  to  write  as  his  own 
authorities  would  have  written.  Nor  did  he  imagine,  like  Carlyle, 
that  he  was  part  and  parcel  of  that  which  he  was  describing.  He 
saw  how  things  liad  gone,  even  if  sometimes  from  a  considerable 
distance,  and  his  idea  was  to  put  them  as  he  saw  them,  with  a  firm, 
clear  outline,  which  would  bring  them  rightly  to  the  mind  of  one 
who  had  not  had  his  opportunities.  But  not  only  did  he  see  every- 
thing clearly,  he  saw  everytliing  in  relation ;  he  conceived  his  sub- 
jects as  wholes,  saw  each  part  as  a  part,  not  for  itself.  He  had  not 
only  a  sense  of  outline,  but  a  sense  of  form. 

It  is  true  that  in  presenting  the  conception  as  it  took  shape  in  his 
mind,  Prescott  was  not,  we  think,  very  happy.  He  lived  toward 
the  beginning  of  an  effort  in  the  writing  of  English  prose  which 
he  may  not  have  understood,  may  not  have  appreciated,  for  he 
continued  the  traditions  to  which  he  had  been  accustomed.  Thus 
he  calmly  uses  the  most  general  word,  and  shuns  anything  that 
might  possibly  be  striking,  and  so  interfere  witii  a  becoming 
dignity.  Had  he  really  had  an  original  sense  of  style,  he  would 
have  expressed  himself  with  some  originr.lity.  As  it  was,  he  con- 
tinued to  write  as  it  had  been  the  habit  of  historians  to  write,  and 
he  achieved  a  very  striking  success. 

Prescott  has  been  called  a  romantic  historian,  and  so  in  a  certain 
sense  he  was,  though  not,  as  we  have  seen,  so  far  as  style  is  con- 
cerned. His  time  was  a  romantic  time,  and  historians  felt  roman- 
tic, as  much  as  anybody  else.  Macaulay  announced  that  the 
"truly  great  historian  would  reclaim  those  materials  which  the 
novelist  had  appropriated."  Carlyle  said  that  any  one  who  read 
"  the  inscrutable  Book  of  Nattire  as  if  it  were  a  merchant's  Ledger, 
is  justly  suspected  of  having  never  seen  that  Book."  Thierry  com- 
posed his  Merovingians  with  occasional  shouts  of  "  Pharamond, 
Pharamond,  we  have  battled  with  the  sword  !  "  Barante,  out  of 
the  Burgundian  ciironicles,  wove  eleven  volumes  of  mediaeval  tap- 
estry, and  concealed  himself  behind  it.  In  Germany  the  learned 
Niebuhr  was  dazzled  by  the  fascination  of  his  lays  of  ancient  Rome. 
In  America  (or,  more  correctly,  in  Spain)  Washington  Irving  could 
not  write  his  Conquest  of  Granada  without  imagining  a  Fray  Aga- 


'  i 


i;4 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


pida,  to  whom  it  might  be  attributed.  Prescott,  too,  felt  the  influ- 
ence, although  he  was  a  different  man  from  any  of  these,  with  aims 
different  from  theirs. 

I'rescott's  ideal  was  not  romantic  :  it  was  the  more  serene,  more 
severe,  clas'^ic  ideal.  Still  there  is  no  doubt  that  he  liked  to  think 
of  his  subjects  as  being  romantic  in  themselves ;  he  thought  of 
Spaniards  und  Moors,  iiifi'lantcuios  and  conquerors,  A/lecs  and 
Peruvians,  as  being  naturally  romantic,  as  may  be  seen  from  the 
prefaces  to  Ferdinand  and  Isabella  and  The  Conquest  of  Peru.  So 
they  doubtless  were  at  tliat  time ;  they  were,  in  fact,  a  part  of  the 
undoubted  possession  of  the  romancer  of  Prescotl's  day.  But 
with  plenty  of  local  color  in  his  subjects,  Prescott  had  not  more 
than  a  general  feeling  for  romancic  <iuality.  M.  de  Heredia's 
"  ivres  d'un  reve  h(5roique  et  brutal "  has  a  romantic  idealism 
which  cannot  be  found  in  the  whole  Conquest  of  Mexico.  Kings- 
ley's  "  Fat  Carbajal  charged  our  cannon  like  an  elephant "  has  a 
romantic  realism  which  cannot  be  fountl  in  all  the  Peru.  A  roman- 
tic mind  loses  much,  but  it  is  apt  to  get  the  play  of  real  life.  This 
I'rescott  generally  missed  :  he  was  always  viewing  the  matter  as  a 
whole,  anil  rarely  got  down  to  oarticulars. 

If,  then,  we  turn  to  Prescott  nowadays  for  romance,  or  if  we 
study  him  for  his  techniiiue,  we  shall  find  only  what  long  since 
had  its  day.  If  we  come  to  him  from  the  post- Darwinian 
historians,  we  may  think  him  superficial  and  inattentive  to  matters 
of  importance.  But  even  from  these  mistaken  standpoints  we 
shall  hardly  be  able  to  read  one  of  his  histories  without  the  feeling 
that  he  is  a  man  of  letters  of  distinguished  power.  He  stood  be- 
tween great  traditions  and  a  great  future ;  he  certainly  had  some 
of  the  weaknesses  of  those  who  had  gone  before  as  well  as  some 
of  their  merits  ;  and  certainly,  too,  he  missed  some  of  the  merits  of 
those  who  were  to  come.  On  the  otlier  hand,  he  avoided  the 
great  faults  of  romanticism,  and  presents  to  us  a  singularly  attrac- 
tive combination  of  classic  excellencies. 


EuwAKU  EvEREiT  IIali:,  Jr. 


felt  the  iiiflu- 
ese,  with  aims 

;  serene,  more 
liked  to  think 
le  thought  of 
I,  A/lecs  and 
ieen  from  the 
t  of  Peru.  So 
a  part  of  the 
I's  day.  But 
had  not  more 
de  Heretlia's 
intic  idealism 
xico.  Kings- 
jphant "  has  a 
u.  A  roman- 
eal  life.  This 
le  matter  as  a 

mce,  or  if  we 
Kit  long  since 
ost- Darwinian 
:ive  to  matters 
tandpoints  we 
:)(it  the  feeling 
He  stood  be- 
inly  had  some 
s  well  as  some 
f  the  merits  of 
e  avoided  the 
igularly  attrac- 


IIau;,  Jr. 


WILUAM  HICK  I.I NG  I'KESCOTT 


THE   I5ATTLE   OF   OTUMBA 


175 


As  the  army  was  climbing  tlie  mountain  steeps  which  shut  in 
the  valley  of  Otompan,  the  vedettes  came  in  with  the  intelligence, 
that  a  powerful  body  was  encair-ped  on  the  other  side,  apparently 
awaiting  their  approach.  The  intelligence  was  soon  confirmetl  by 
their  own  eyes,  as  they  turned  the  crest  of  the  sierra,  and  saw 
spread  out,  below,  a  mighty  host,  filling  up  the  whole  depth  of  the 
valley,  and  giving  to  it  the  appearance,  from  the  white  cotton  mail 
of  the  warriors,  of  being  covered  with  snow.  It  consisted  of  levies 
from  the  surrounding  country,  and  especially  the  populous  territory 
of  Tezcuco,  drawn  together  at  the  instance  of  Cuitlahua,  Monte- 
zuma's successor,  and  now  concentrated  on  this  point  to  dispute 
the  passage  of  the  Spaniards.  Every  chief  of  note  had  taken  the 
field  with  his  whole  array  gathered  under  his  standard,  proudly 
displaying  all  the  pomp  and  rude  splendor  of  his  military  equip- 
ment. As  far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  were  to  be  seen  shields  and 
waving  banners,  fantastic  helmets,  forests  of  shining  spears,  the 
bright  feather-mail  of  the  chief,  and  the  coarse  cotton  panoply  of 
his  followers,  all  mingleii  together  in  wild  confusion,  and  tossing  to 
and  fro  like  the  billows  of  a  troubled  ocean.  It  v/as  a  sight  to  fill 
the  stoutest  heart  among  the  Christians  with  dismay,  heightened 
by  the  previous  expectation  of  soon  reaching  the  friendly  land 
which  was  to  terminate  their  wearisome  pilgrimage.  Even  Cortds, 
as  he  contrasted  the  tremendous  array  before  him  with  his  own 
diminished  squadrons,  wasted  by  disease  and  enfeebled  by  hunger 
and  fatigue,  could  not  escape  the  conviction  that  his  last  hour  had 
arrived. 

But  his  was  not  the  heart  to  despond  ;  and  he  gathered  strength 
from  the  very  extremity  of  his  situation.  He  had  no  room  for 
hesitation ;  for  there  was  no  alternative  left  to  him.  To  escape 
was  impossible.  He  could  not  retreat  on  the  capital,  from  which 
he  had  been  expelled.  He  must  advance,  —  cut  through  the  enemy, 
or  perish.  He  hastily  made  his  dispositions  for  the  fight.  He 
gave  his  force  as  broad  a  front  as  possible,  jirotecting  it  on  each 
flank  by  his  little  body  of  horse,  now  reduced  to  twenty.  Fortu- 
nately, he  had  not  allowed  the  invalids,  for  the  last  two  days,  to 


w     I 


1/6 


AMEiaC.tX  J'KOSE 


mount  behind  the  riders,  from  a  desire  to  spare  the  horses,  so  that 
these  were  now  in  tolerable  ronibtion  ;  and,  indeed,  the  whole 
army  had  been  refreshed  by  haltin},',  as  we  Iiiive  seen,  two  nights 
and  a  day  in  the  same  ])lace,  a  delay,  however,  which  had  allowed 
the  enemy  time  to  assemble  in  such  force  to  tlispute  its  jjrogress. 

CorttJs  instructed  his  cavaliers  not  to  part  with  their  lances,  and 
to  direct  them  at  the  face.  The  inf;intry  were  to  thrust,  not  strike, 
with  their  swords ;  passing  them,  at  once,  through  the  bodies  of 
their  enemies.  They  were,  above  all,  to  aim  at  the  leaders,  as 
the  general  well  knew  how  much  depends  on  the  life  of  the  com- 
mander in  the  wars  of  barbarians,  whose  want  of  subordination 
makes  them  impatient  of  any  control  but  that  to  which  they  are 
accustomed. 

He  then  addressed  to  his  troops  a  few  words  of  encouragement, 
as  cust(  .nary  with  him  on  the  eve  of  p"  '>ngii  ^ement.  He  reminded 
them  of  the  victories  they  iiad  won  with  ot'ds  nearly  as  discourag- 
ing as  the  present ;  thus  establishing  the  sui)eriority  of  science 
and  discipline  over  numbers.  Numbers,  indeed,  were  of  no  ac- 
tount,  where  the  arm  of  the  Almighty  was  on  their  side.  And  he 
bade  them  have  full  confi<lence,  that  He,  who  had  carried  them 
safely  through  so  many  jierils,  would  not  now  abandon  them  and 
his  own  good  cause,  to  perish  by  the  hand  of  the  infidel.  His  ad- 
dress was  brief,  for  he  read  in  their  looks  that  settled  resolve  which 
rendered  words  unnecessary.  Tiie  circumstances  of  their  position 
spoke  more  forcibly  to  the  heart  of  every  soldier  than  any  elo- 
quence couid  have  done,  filling  it  with  that  feeling  of  desperation 
which  makes  the  weak  arm  strong,  and  turns  the  coward  into  a 
hero.  After  they  had  earnestly  commended  themselves,  therefore, 
to  the  protection  of  (iod,  the  Virgin,  and  St.  James,  Corttis  led 
his  battalions  straight  against  the  enemy. 

It  was  a  solemn  moment,  —  that,  in  which  the  devoted  little  band, 
with  steadfast  countenances,  and  their  usual  intrepid  step,  descended 
on  the  plain,  to  be  swallowed  up,  as  it  were,  in  the  vast  ocean  of 
their  enemies.  The  latter  rushed  on  with  impetuosity  to  meet 
them,  making  the  mountains  ring  to  their  discordant  yells  and 
battle-cries,  and  sending  forth  volleys  of  stones  and  arrows  which 
for  a  moment  shut  out  the  light  of  day.  But,  when  the  leading 
files  of  the  two  armies  closed,  the  superiority  of  the  Cluistians  was 


WILLIAM  I  LICK  LING  PR  F.SCOTT 


\77 


urscs,  so  that 
1,  tlic  whole 
n,  two  niglits 
1  hill  I  allowed 
its  progress. 
r  lances,  and 
St,  not  strike, 
he  bodies  of 
e  leaders,  as 
;  of  the  com- 
subordination 
lich  they  are 

::ouragement, 
He  reminded 
as  discourag- 
ty  of  science 
.•re  of  no  ac- 
ide.  And  he 
carried  them 
on  them  and 
lei.  His  ad- 
resolve  which 
their  position 
han  any  elo- 
f  desperation 
:oward  into  a 
r'es,  therefore, 
;s,  Corttis  led 

ed  little  band, 
;p, descended 
^'ast  ocean  of 
)sity  to  meet 
int  yells  and 
arrows  which 
1  the  leading 
Christians  was 


felt,  as  their  antagonists,  falling  bark  before  the  charges  of  cavalry, 
were  thrown  into  confusion  by  their  own  numbers  who  pressed  on 
them  from  behind.  The  Spanish  infantry  followed  up  the  blow, 
and  a  wide  lane  was  openeil  in  the  ranks  of  the  enemy,  who, 
receding  on  all  sides,  seemed  willing  to  allow  a  free  passage  for 
their  opponents.  Ikit  it  was  to  return  on  them  with  accumulated 
force,  as  rallying  they  poured  upon  the  Christians,  enveloping  the 
little  army  on  all  sides,  which,  with  its  bristling  array  of  long 
swords  and  javelins,  stood  firm,  —  in  the  words  of  a  contemporary, 
—  like  an  islet  against  which  the  breakers,  roaring  and  surging, 
spend  their  fury  in  vain.  The  struggle  was  desperate  of  man 
against  man.  The  'I'lascalan  seemed  to  renew  his  strength,  as  he 
fought  almost  in  view  of  his  own  native  hills  ;  as  did  the  Spaniard, 
with  the  horrible  doom  of  the  captive  before  his  eyes.  Well 
did  the  cavaliers  do  their  duty  on  that  d.ay  ;  charging,  in  little 
bodies  of  four  and  five  abreast,  dee])  into  the  enemy's  ranks,  rid- 
ing over  the  broken  files,  and  by  this  temjjorary  advantage  giving 
strength  and  courage  to  the  inf^intry.  Not  a  lance  was  there  which 
did  not  reek  with  the  bload  of  the  infidel.  Among  the  rest,  the 
young  cajjtain  Sandoval  is  particularly  commemorated  for  his  dar- 
ing prowess.  Managing  his  fiery  steed  with  easy  horsemanship, 
he  darted,  when  least  expected,  into  the  thickest  of  the  m^lce, 
overturning  the  stanchest  warriors,  and  rejoicing  in  danger,  as  if 
it  were  his  natural  element. 

But  these  gallant  displays  of  heroism  served  only  to  ingulf  the 
Spaniards  deeper  and  deeper  in  the  mass  of  the  enemy,  with 
scarcely  any  more  chance  of  cutting  their  way  through  his  dense 
and  interminable  battalions,  than  of  hewing  a  passage  with  their 
swords  through  the  moimtains.  Many  of  tlie  TIascalans  and  some 
of  the  Spaniards  had  fallen,  and  not  one  but  had  been  wounded. 
Corttis  himself  had  received  a  second  cut  on  the  head,  and  his 
horse  was  so  much  injured  that  he  was  compelled  to  dismount, 
and  take  one  from  the  baggage  train,  a  strong-boned  animal,  who 
carried  him  well  through  the  turmoil  of  the  day.  The  contest 
had  now  lasted  several  hours.  The  sun  rode  high  in  the  heavens, 
and  shed  an  intolerable  fervor  over  the  plain.  The  Christians, 
weakened  l)y  previous  rufferings,  and  faint  with  loss  of  blood,  be- 
gan to  relax  in  their  desperate  exertions.    Their  enemies,  con- 

N 


4mi^iil^Mm^--. 


!  g^ 


178 


AAfUmCAN  PKOSE 


glanlly  siii)iK)rtitl  l)y  frcsli  relays  from  the  rear,  were  still  in  good 
heart,  and,  iiuirk  to  perceive  their  advantage,  pressed  with  re- 
doubled fori  e  on  the  Sjjaniards.  I'he  horse  fell  bai  k,  crowded 
ou  the  foot  ;  and  the  latter,  in  vain  seeking  a  passage  amidst  the 
dusky  throngs  of  the  enemy,  who  now  dosed  up  the  rear,  were 
thrown  into  some  disorder.  The  tide  of  battle  was  setting  rapidly 
against  the  (  hristians.  The  fate  of  the  day  would  soon  be  de- 
cided ;  and  all  that  now  remained  for  them  seemed  to  be  to  sell 
their  lives  as  dearly  as  possible. 

At  this  critical  moment,  C.'ortOs,  whose  restless  eye  had  been 
roving  round  the  field  in  (piest  of  any  ol)jcct  that  might  offer  him 
the  ine.ins  of  arresting  the  coming  ruin,  rising  in  his  stirrups,  de- 
scried at  a  distance,  in  tlie  midst  of  the  thnjng,  the  cliief  who  from 
his  dress  and  military  (orti-^c  he  knew  must  be  the  commander  of 
the  barbarian  forces.  He  was  (hovered  with  a  rich  surcoat  of  feather- 
work  ;  and  a  [)anache  of  beautiful  plimies,  gorgeously  set  in  gold 
and  precious  stones,  floated  above  his  head.  Rising  above  this, 
and  attached  to  his  back,  between  the  shoulders,  was  a  short  staff 
bearing  a  golden  net  for  a  banner,  —  the  singular,  but  customary, 
symbol  of  authority  for  an  Aztec  commander.  'I'he  cacique,  whose 
name  was  Cihuaca,  was  borne  on  a  litter,  and  a  body  of  young  war- 
riors, whose  gay  and  ornamented  dresses  showed  them  to  be  the 
flower  of  the  Indian  nobles,  stood  round  as  a  guard  of  his  person 
and  the  sacred  emblem. 

'I'he  eagle  eye  of  Corttis  no  sooner  fell  on  this  personage,  than 
it  lighted  up  with  triumph.  Turning  quickly  round  to  the  cava- 
liers at  his  side,  among  whom  were  Sandoval,  Olid,  Alvarado,  and 
Avila,  he  pointed  out  the  chief,  exclaiming,  "There  is  our  mark  ! 
Follow  and  support  me  !  "  Then  crying  his  war-cry,  and  striking 
his  iron  heel  into  his  weary  steed,  he  plunged  headlong  into  the 
thickest  of  the  press.  His  enemies  fell  back,  taken  by  surprise 
and  daunted  by  the  ferocity  of  the  attack.  Those  who  did  not 
were  pierced  through  with  his  lance,  or  borne  down  by  the  weight 
of  his  charger.  The  cavaliers  followed  close  in  the  rear.  On 
they  swept,  with  the  fury  of  a  thunderbolt,  cleaving  the  solid  ranks 
asunder,  strewing  their  path  with  the  dying  and  the  dead,  and 
bounding  over  every  obstacle  in  their  way.  In  a  few  minutes 
they  were  in  the  presence  of  the  Indian  commander,  and  Cortes, 


*w.... 


still  in  good 
ised  with  re- 
ick,  crowded 
c  amidst  the 
lie  rear,  were 
L'ttiiiR  rapidly 
soon  lie  de- 
l  to  be  to  sell 

ye  had  been 
ght  offer  him 
i  stirrups,  de- 
licf  who  from 
)mniander  of 
)at  of  feather- 
y  set  in  gold 
g  above  this, 
a  short  staff 
it  customary, 
icique,  whose 
of  young  war- 
:m  to  be  the 
of  his  person 

rsonage,  than 
to  the  cava- 
\lvarado,  and 
is  our  mark  ! 
,  and  striking 
long  into  the 
n  by  surprise 
who  did  not 
by  the  weight 
le  rear.  On 
le  solid  ranks 
le  dead,  and 
few  minutes 
,  and  Cortd's, 


Wll.l.lAAt  HICKUNG  rKESCOTT 


•79 


overturning  his  supporters,  sprang  forward  with  the  strength  of  a 
lion,  and,  striking  him  tiirough  with  his  lance,  hurled  him  to  the 
ground.  A  young  <  avalier,  Juan  dc  Salamanca,  who  had  kept 
close  by  his  general's  side,  (piickly  dismounted  and  despatdied 
the  fallen  chief.  Then  tearing  away  his  banner,  he  presented  it 
to  Corlcs,  as  a  trophy  to  which  he  had  the  best  claim.  It  was  all 
the  work  of  a  moment.  The  guard,  nerpowercd  by  the  sudden- 
ness of  the  onset,  made  little  resistance,  but,  flying,  connnunicated 
their  own  panic  to  their  comrades.  The  tidings  of  the  loss  .loon 
spread  over  the  field.  The  Indians,  filled  with  consternation,  now 
thought  only  of  escape.  In  their  blind  terror,  their  numbers  aug- 
mented their  confusion.  They  trampled  on  one  another,  fancying 
it  was  the  enemy  in  their  rear. 

The  Spaniards  and  Tlascalans  were  not  slow  to  avail  themselves 
of  the  marvellous  change  in  their  affairs.  Their  fatigue,  their 
wounds,  hunger,  thirst,  all  were  forgotten  in  the  eagerness  for 
vengeance  ;  and  they  followed  up  the  flying  foe,  dealing  death  at 
every  stroke,  and  taking  ample  retribution  for  all  they  had  suffered 
in  the  bloody  marshes  of  Mexico.  Long  did  they  pursue,  till,  the 
enemy  having  abandoned  the  field,  they  returned  sated  with 
slaughter  to  glean  the  booty  which  he  had  left.  It  was  great,  for 
the  ground  was  covered  with  the  bodies  of  chiefs,  at  whom  the 
Spaniards,  m  obedience  to  the  general's  instructions,  had  particu- 
larly aimed ;  and  their  dresses  displayed  all  the  barbaric  pomp  of 
ornament,  in  which  the  Indian  warrior  delighted.  When  his  men 
had  thus  indemnified  themselves,  in  some  degree,  for  their  late 
reverses,  CortiJs  called  them  again  untier  their  banners  ;  and,  after 
offering  up  a  grateful  acknowledgement  to  the  Lord  of  Hosts  for 
their  miraculous  preservation,  they  renewed  their  march  across  the 
now  deserted  valley.  The  sun  was  declining  in  the  heavens,  but, 
before  the  shades  of  evening  had  gathered  around,  they  reached 
an  Indian  temple  on  an  eminence,  which  afforded  a  strong  and 
commodious  position  for  the  night. 

Such  was  the  famous  battle  of  Otompan,  —  or  Otumba,  as  com- 
monly called,  from  the  Spanish  corruption  of  the  name.  It  was 
fought  on  the  eighth  of  July,  1520.  The  whole  amount  of  the 
Indian  force  is  reckoned  by  Castilian  writers  at  two  hundred 
thousand  I    that  of  the  slain  at  twenty  thousand !    Those  who 


\  \ 


■'■■«9aB®lfi«^S«iStft 


i8o 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


admit  the  first  part  of  the  estimate  will  find  no  dititiculty  in  re- 
ceiving the  last.  It  is  about  as  difficuli  m  form  an  accurate  cal- 
culation r>f  the  numbers  of  a  disorderly  savage  multitude,  as  of  the 
pebbles  on  the  beach,  or  the  scattered  leaves  in  autumn.  Yet  it 
was,  undoubtedly,  one  of  the  most  remarkable  victories  ever 
achieved  in  the  New  World.  And  this,  not  merely  on  account  of 
the  disparity  of  the  forces,  but  oi"  their  unequal  condition.  For 
the  Indians  were  in  all  their  strength,  while  the  Christians  were 
wasted  by  disease,  famine,  and  long  protracted  sufferings  ;  without 
cannon  or  fire-arms,  and  deficient  in  the  military  apparatus  which 
had  so  often  struck  terror  into  their  barbarian  foe,  —  deficient 
even  in  the  terrors  of  a  victorious  name.  But  they  had  disci- 
pline on  their  side,  desperate  resolve,  and  implicit  confidence  in 
their  commander.  Tnat  they  should  have  triumphed  against 
such  odds  furnishes  an  inference  of  the  same  kind  as  that  estab- 
lished by  the  victories  of  the  European  over  the  semi-civilized 
hordes  of  Asia. 

Yet  even  here  all  must  not  be  referred  to  superior  discipline 
and  tactics.  For  the  battle  would  certainly  have  been  lost,  had  it 
not  been  for  the  fortunate  death  of  the  Indian  general.  And, 
although  the  selection  of  the  victim  may  be  called  the  result  of 
calculation,  yet  it  was  by  the  most  precarious  chance  that  he  was 
thrown  in  the  way  of  the  Spaniards.  It  is,  indeed,  one  among 
many  examples  of  the  influence  of  fortune  in  determining  the  fate 
of  military  operations.  '1  he  star  of  Cortes  was  in  the  ascendant. 
Had  it  been  otherwise,  not  a  Spaniard  would  have  survived  that 
day  to  tell  the  bloody  tale  of  the  battle  of  Otumba. 

[Frc.n  History  of  the  Conquest  of  Mexico,  1S43,  '^o"'^  ^'>  chapter  4.] 


THE   PILLAGE   OF   CUZCO 


It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  when  the  Conquerors  came  in  sight 
of  Cuzco.  The  descending  sun  was  streaming  his  broad  rays  fiill 
on  tlie  imperial  city,  where  many  an  altar  was  dedicated  to  his 
worship.  The  low  ranges  of  buildings,  showing  in  his  beams  like 
so  many  lines  of  silvery  light,  filled  up  the  bosom  of  the  valley 
and  the  lower  slopes  of  the  mountains,  whose  shadowy  forms  hung 


fficulty  in  re- 
accurate  cal- 
tude,  as  of  the 
tumn.  Yet  it 
victories  ever 
on  account  of 
indition.  For 
hristians  were 
•ings ;  witliout 
iparatus  wliich 
)e,  —  deficient 
ley  had  disci- 
confidence  in 
nphed  against 
as  that  estab- 
semi-civilized 

rior  discipUne 
;en  lost,  had  it 
eneral.  And, 
the  result  of 
ce  that  he  was 
d,  one  among 
iiining  the  fate 
the  ascendant. 
;  survived  that 

haptct  4.] 


;  came  in  sight 
broad  rays  full 
plicated  to  his 
his  beams  like 
n  of  the  valley 
)wy  forms  hung 


/' 


WILLIAM  HICK  LING  PRESCOTT 


181 


darkly  over  the  fair  city,  as  if  to  shield  it  from  the  menaced 
profanation.  It  was  so  late,  that  Pizarro  resolved  to  defer  his 
entrance  till  the  following  morning. 

That  night  vigilant  guard  was  kept  in  the  camp,  and  the  soldiers 
slept  on  their  arms.  But  it  passed  away  without  annoyance  from 
the  enemy,  and  early  on  the  following  day,  November  15,  1533, 
Pizarro  prepared  for  his  entrance  into  the  Peruvian  capital. 

The  little  army  was  formed  into  three  divisions,  of  which  the 
centre,  or  "  battle,"  as  it  was  called,  was  led  by  the  general.  The 
suburbs  were  thronged  with  a  countless  multitude  of  the  nati-es, 
who  had  flocked  from  the  city  and  die  surrounding  country  to 
witness  the  showy,  and,  to  them,  startling  pageant.  All  looked 
with  eager  curiosity  on  the  strangers,  the  fame  of  whose  terrible 
exploits  had  spread  to  the  remotest  parts  of  the  empire.  They 
gazed  with  astonishment  on  their  dazzling  arms  and  fair  com- 
plexions, which  seemed  to  proclaim  them  the  true  Children  of  the 
Sun ;  and  they  listened  with  feelings  of  mysterious  dread,  as  the 
trumpet  sent  forth  its  prolonged  notes  through  the  streets  of 
the  capital,  and  the  solid  ground  shook  under  the  heavy  tramp  of 
the  cavalry. 

The  Spanish  commander  rode  directly  up  the  great  square.  It 
was  surrounded  by  low  piles  of  buildings,  among  which  w;re 
several  palaces  of  the  Incas.  One  of  these,  >'rtcted  by  Huryna 
Capac,  was  surmounted  by  a  tower,  while  the  ground-floor  was 
occupied  by  one  or  more  immense  halls,  like  I  hose  descriJ  ed  in 
Caxamalca,  where  the  Peruvian  nobles  held  thci-  fHes  in  stormy 
weather.  These  buildings  afforded  convenient  barracks  for  the 
troops,  though,  during  the  f;rst  few  weeks,  they  remained  under 
their  tents  in  the  open  plaza,  with  their  horses  picketed  by  their 
side,  ready  to  repulse  any  insurrection  of  the  inhabitants. 

The  capital  of  the  Incas,  though  falling  short  of  the  El  Dorado 
which  had  engaged  their  credulous  fancies,  astonished  the  Span- 
iards by  the  beauty  of  its  edifices,  the  length  and  regularity  of  its 
streets,  and  the  good  order  and  appearance  of  comfort,  even 
luxury,  visible  in  its  numerous  population.  It  far  surpassed  all 
they  had  yet  seen  in  the  New  World.  The  population  of  the  city  is 
computed  by  one  of  the  Conquerors  at  two  hundred  thousand 
inhabitants,  and  that  of  the  suburbs  at  as  many  more.    This 


I  I 


I  i 

i; 

i 


E*sl 


182 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


account  is  not  conurmcd,  as  far  as  I  have  seen,  by  any  other 
writer.  I'ut  however  it  may  be  exaggerated,  it  is  certain  that 
Cu/.co  was  the  metropolis  of  a  great  empire,  the  residence  of  the 
court  and  tlie  chiet  nobility ;  frequented  by  the  most  skilful 
mechanics  and  artisans  „f  every  description,  who  found  a  demand 
for  their  ingenuity  in  the  royal  precincts ;  while  the  place  was 
garrisoned  by  a  mmierous  soldiery,  and  was  the  resort,  finally,  of 
emigrants  from  the  most  distant  provinces.  The  quarters  whence 
this  motley  population  came  were  indicated  by  their  peculiar 
dress,  and  especially  their  head-gear,  so  rarely  fotmd  at  all  on  the 
American  Indian,  which,  with  its  variegated  colours,  gave  a  pictu- 
resque effect  to  the  groups  and  masses  in  the  streets.  The  habit- 
ual order  and  <lecorum  maintained  in  this  multifarious  assembly 
showed  the  excellent  police  of  the  capital,  where  the  only  sounds 
that  disturbed  the  repose  of  the  Spaniards  were  the  noises  of 
feasting  and  dancing,  which  the  natives,  with  hai)py  insensibility, 
constantly  prolonged  to  a  late  hour  of  the  night. 

The  edifices  of  die  better  sort  —  and  they  were  very  numerous 
—  were  of  stone,  or  faced  with  stone.  Among  the  principal  were 
the  royal  residences;  as  each  sovereign  built  a  new  palace  for 
himself,  covering,  though  low,  a  arge  extent  of  ground.  The 
walls  were  sometimes  stained  or  painted  with  gaudy  tints,  and  the 
gates,  we  are  assured,  were  sometimes  of  coloured  marble.  "  In 
the  delicacy  of  the  stone-work,"  says  another  of  the  Conquerors, 
"  the  natives  far  excelled  the  Spaniards,  though  the  roofs  of  their 
dwellings,  instead  of  tiles,  were  only  of  thatch,  but  put  together 
with  the  nicest  art."  The  sunny  climate  of  Cuzco  did  not  require 
a  very  substantial  material  for  defence  against  the  weather. 

The  most  miportant  building  was  the  fortress,  planted  on  a 
solid  rock,  that  rose  boldly  above  the  city.  It  was  built  of  hewn 
stone,  so  finely  wrought  that  it  was  impossible  to  detect  the  line 
of  junction  between  the  blocks ;  and  the  approaches  to  it  were 
defended  by  three  semicircular  parapets,  composed  of  such  heavy 
masses  of  rock,  that  it  Iwre  resemblance  to  the  kind  of  work 
known  to  architects  as  the  Cyclopean.  The  fortress  was  raised  to 
a  height  rare  in  Peruvian  architecture ;  and  from  the  summit  of 
the  tower  the  eye  of  the  spectator  ranged  over  a  magnificent 
prospect,  in  which  the  wild  features  of  the   mountain   scenery, 


.i:jiStj^ssSi#^^-^^fSrc.n;, 


v.^^'i."- . ,;  -_•■  -^  >.^_'-Mt'»*isi  iK<hii--*^^Sit  -  (f 


■nai 


WILLIAM  HICK  LING  PRESCOTT 


183 


by  any  other 
i  certain  that 
idence  of  the 
most  skilful 
ind  a  demand 
he  place  was 
ort,  finally,  of 
arlers  whence 
their  pecidiar 
1  at  all  on  the 
gave  a  pictu- 
.  The  habit- 
ious  assembly 
e  only  sounds 
the  noises  of 
\'  insensibility, 

/ery  numerous 
principal  were 
ew  palace  for 
ground.  The 
tints,  and  the 
marble.  "  In 
t  Conquerors, 
roofs  of  their 

put  together 
id  not  require 
eather. 

planted  on  a 
built  of  hewn 
etect  the  line 
les  to  it  were 
of  such  heavy 
kind  of  work 

was  raised  to 
he  summit  of 
a  magnificent 
itain   scenery, 


rocks,  woods,  and  waterfalls,  were  mingled  with  the  rich  verdure 
of  the  valley,  and  the  shining  city  filling  up  the  foreground, —  all 
blended  in  sweet  harmony  under  the  deep  azure  of  a  tropical  sky. 

The  streets  were  long  and  narrow.  They  were  arranged  with 
perfect  regularity,  crossing  one  another  at  right  angles;  and  from 
the  great  square  diverged  four  principal  streets  connecting  with 
the  high  roads  of  the  empire.  The  square  itself,  and  many  parts 
of  the  city,  were  paved  with  a  fine  pebble.  Through  the  heart  of 
the  capital  ran  a  river  of  pure  water,  if  it  might  not  be  rather 
termed  a  canal,  the  banks  or  sides  of  which,  for  the  distance  of 
twenty  leagues,  weie  faced  with  stone.  Across  this  stream, 
bridgiis,  constructed  of  similar  broad  flags,  we*-?  thrown  at 
intervals,  so  as  to  afford  an  easy  communication  between  the 
different  quarters  of  the  capital. 

The  most  sumptuous  edifice  in  Cuzco,  in  the  times  of  the  Incas, 
was  undoubtedly  the  great  temple  dedicated  to  the  Sun,  which, 
studded  with  gold  plates,  as  already  noticed,  was  surrounded  by 
convents  and  dormitories  for  the  priests,  with  their  gardens  and 
broad  parterres  sparkling  with  gold.  The  exterior  ornaments  had 
been  already  removed  by  the  Conquerors,  —  all  but  the  frieze  of 
gold,  which,  imbedded  in  the  stones,  still  encircled  the  principal 
building.  It  is  probable  that  the  tales  of  wealth,  so  greedily  circu- 
lated among  the  Spaniards,  greatly  exceeded  the  truth.  If  they 
did  not,  the  natives  must  have  been  very  successful  in  concealing 
their  treasures  from  the  invaders.  Yet  much  still  remained,  not 
only  in  the  great  House  of  the  Sun,  but  in  the  inferior  temples 
which  swarmed  in  the  capital. 

Pizarro,  on  entering  Cuzco,  had  issued  an  order  forbidding  any 
soldier  to  offer  violence  to  the  dwellings  of  the  inhabitants.  But 
the  palaces  were  numerous,  and  the  troops  lost  no  time  in  plunder- 
ing diem  of  their  contents,  as  well  as  in  despoiling  the  religious 
edifices.  The  interior  decorations  sujjplied  them  with  consider- 
able booty.  They  stripped  off  the  jewels  and  rich  ornaments  that 
garnished  the  royal  mummies  in  the  temple  of  Coricancha.  In- 
dignant at  the  concealment  of  their  treasures,  they  put  the  inhabi- 
tants, in  some  instances,  to  the  torture,  and  endeavoured  to  extort 
from  them  a  confession  of  their  hiding-places.  They  invaded  the 
repose  of  the  sepulchres,  in  which  the  Peruvians  often  deposited 


.;i«iM.^»i>«>s«i«t«i&«i>,<gi^;«;«^^ 


I«p"«» 


184 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


their  valuable  effects,  and  compelled  the  grave  to  give  up  its  dead. 
No  place  was  left  unexplored  by  the  rapacious  Conquerors ;  and 
they  occasionally  stumbled  on  a  mine  of  wealth  that  rewarded 
their  labors. 

In  a  cavern  near  the  city  they  found  a  number  of  vases  of  pure 
gold,  richly  emlx)ssed  with  the  figures  of  serpents,  locusts,  and 
other  animals.  Among  the  spoil  were  four  golden  llamas  and  ten 
or  twelve  statues  of  women,  some  of  gokl,  others  of  silver,  "  which 
merely  to  see,"  says  one  of  the  Conquerors,  with  some  naivete, 
"  was  truly  a  great  satisfaction."  The  gold  was  probably  thin,  for 
the  figures  were  all  as  large  as  life ;  and  several  of  them,  being 
reserved  for  the  royal  fifth,  were  not  recast,  but  sent  in  their  origi- 
nal form  to  Spain.  The  magazines  were  stored  with  curious  com- 
modities ;  richly  tinted  robes  of  cotton  and  feather-work,  gold 
sandals,  and  slippers  of  the  same  material,  for  the  women,  and 
dresses  composed  entirely  of  beads  of  gold.  The  grain  and  other 
articles  of  food,  with  which  the  magazines  were  filled,  were  held 
in  contempt  by  the  Conquerors,  intent  only  on  gratifying  their  lust 
for  gold.  The  time  came  when  the  grain  would  have  been  of  far 
more  value. 

Yet  the  amount  of  treasure  in  the  capital  did  not  equal  the 
sanguine  expectations  that  had  been  formed  by  the  Spaniards. 
But  the  deficiency  was  supplied  by  the  plunder  which  they  had 
collected  at  various  places  on  their  march.  In  one  place,  for 
example,  they  met  with  ten  planks  or  bars  of  solid  silver,  each 
piece  being  twenty  feet  in  length,  one  foot  in  breadth,  and  two 
or  three  inches  thick.  They  were  intended  to  decorate  the  dwell- 
ing of  an  Inca  noble. 

The  whole  mass  of  treasure  was  brought  into  a  common  heap, 
as  in  Caxamalca ;  and  after  some  of  the  finer  specimens  had  been 
deducted  for  the  Crown,  the  remainder  was  delivered  to  the  Indian 
goldsmiths  to  be  melted  down  into  ingots  of  a  uniform  standard. 
The  division  of  the  spoil  was  made  on  the  same  principle  as  before. 
There  were  four  hundred  and  eighty  soldiers,  including  the  garri- 
son of  Xauxa,  who  were  each  to  receive  a  share,  that  of  the  cavalry 
being  double  that  of  the  infantry.  The  amount  of  booty  is  stated 
variously  by  those  present  at  the  division  of  it.  According  to 
some,  it  considerably  exceeded  the  ransom  of  Atahuallpa.    Others 


WILLIAM  HICKLIS'G  PKEHCOTT 


I8S 


ve  uj)  its  dead, 
nquerors ;  and 
that  rewarded 

f  vases  of  pure 
s,  locusts,  and 
llamas  and  ten 
silver,  "  which 
some  ndiveii', 
)bably  thin,  for 
of  them,  being 
t  in  their  origi- 
h  curious  com- 
lier-work,  gold 
e  women,  and 
;rain  and  other 
led,  were  held 
fying  their  lust 
ive  been  of  far 

not  equal  the 
the  Spaniards, 
.'hich  they  had 
one  place,  for 
id  silver,  each 
:adth,  and  two 
rate  the  dwell- 

conimon  heap, 
nens  had  been 
d  to  the  Indian 
form  standard, 
ciple  as  before, 
ding  the  garri- 
t  of  the  cavalry 
booty  is  stated 
According  to 
jallpa.    Others 


state  it  as  less.  Pedro  Pizarro  says  that  each  horseman  got  six 
thousand  pesos  th  oro,  and  each  one  of  the  infantry  half  that  sum  ; 
though  the  same  discrimination  was  made  by  Pizarro  as  before,  in 
respect  to  the  rank  of  the  parties,  and  their  relative  services.  Hut 
Sancho,  the  royal  notary  and  secretary  of  the  commander,  esti- 
mates the  whole  amount  as  far  less,  —  not  exceeding  five  hundretl 
and  eighty  thousand  and  two  huntlred  pesos  tie  oro,  and  two  hun- 
dred and  fifteen  thousand  marks  of  silver.  In  the  absence  of  the 
official  returns,  it  is  impossible  to  determine  which  is  correct.  But 
Sancho's  narrative  is  countersigned,  it  may  be  remembered,  by 
Pizarro  and  the  royal  treasurer  Riquelme,  and  doubtless,  there- 
fore, shows  the  actual  amount  for  which  the  Conquerors  accounted 
to  the  Cro-vn. 

Whichever  statement  we  receive,  the  sum,  combined  with  that 
obtained  at  Caxamalca,  might  well  have  satisfied  the  cravings  of 
the  most  avaricious.  The  sudden  influx  of  so  much  wealth,  and 
that,  too,  in  so  transferable  a  form,  among  a  party  of  reckless  ad- 
venturers little  accustomed  to  the  possession  of  money,  had  its 
natural  effect.  It  supplied  them  with  the  means  of  gaming,  so 
strong  and  common  a  passion  with  the  Spaniards,  that  it  may  be 
considered  a  national  vice.  Fortunes  were  lost  and  won  in  a  single 
day,  sufficient  to  render  the  proprietors  independent  for  life ;  and 
many  a  desperate  gamester,  by  an  unlucky  throw  of  the  dice  or 
turn  of  the  cards,  saw  himself  stripped  m  a  few  hours  of  the  fruit- 
of  years  of  toil,  and  obliged  to  begin  over  again  the  business  of 
rapine.  Among  these,  one  in  the  cavalry  service  is  mentioned, 
named  Leguizano,  who  had  received  as  his  share  of  the  booty  the 
image  of  the  Sun,  which,  raised  on  a  plate  of  burnished  gold, 
spread  over  the  walls  in  a  recess  of  the  great  temple,  and  which, 
for  some  reason  or  other,  —  perhaps,  because  of  its  si  perior  fine- 
ness, —  was  not  recast  like  the  other  ornaments.  Th.s  rich  prize 
the  spendthrift  lost  in  a  single  night;  whence  it  came  to  be  a 
proverb  in  Spain,  Jiiega  el  Sol  antes  que  amanczca,  "  Play  away 
the  Sun  before  sunrise." 

The  efl"ect  of  such  a  surfeit  of  the  precious  metals  was  instantly 
felt  on  prices.  The  most  ordinary  articles  were  only  to  be  had 
for  exorbitant  sums.  A  quire  of  paper  sold  for  ten  pesos  de 
oro  ;  a  bottle  of  wine,  for  sixty  ;  a  sword,  for  forty  or  fifty ;  a  cloak, 


»e»7-^jr».B^jE^ji^._^,,;  ^.,^ 


-  '^^r''^'y^i^v''!!^'-^^*^?t?y^?^^^^y^^^^^^^^ 


w^mik 


«^ 


■••«• 


1 86 


AMERICAN  PKOSR 


for  a  luindred, —  sometimes  more  ;  a  pair  of  shoes  cost  thirty  or 
forty  pfsos  de  oro,  and  a  good  liorse  could  not  be  had  for  less  than 
twenty-five  himdred.  Some  brought  a  still  higher  price.  Every 
article  rose  in  value,  as  gold  and  silver,  the  representatives  of  all, 
declined.  Gold  and  silver,  in  short,  seemed  to  be  the  only  things 
in  Cuzco  that  were  not  wealth.  Yet  there  were  some  few  wise 
enough  to  return  contented  with  their  present  gains  to  their  native 
country.  Here  their  riches  brought  them  consideration  and  com- 
petence, and,  while  they  excited  the  envy  of  their  countrymen, 
stimulated  them  to  seek  their  o\/n  fortunes  in  the  like  path  of 
adventure. 

[From  History  of  the  Conquest  of  Pan,  1847,  book  iii,  chapter  8.J 


lafttSBW&Batai^j^BSfagi 


■ppppi 


cost  thirty  or 
d  for  less  than 
price.  Every 
itatives  of  all, 
he  only  things 
lome  few  wise 
to  their  native 
tion  and  com- 
r  countrymen, 

like  path  of 

iptet  8.J 


feillJ^ijlMli!Sll8SJa*gteMiS^fe 


RALPH    WALDO    EMERSON 

[Ralph  Waldo  Emerson  was  horn  in  Boston,  May  25,  1803.  liis  father, 
who  was  pastor  of  the  First  Church  there,  died  in  1811,  leaving  the  family  in 
reduced  circumstances.  The  l)oy's  education,  however,  was  not  neglected; 
not  only  was  he  sent  to  the  Latin  School  and  afterwards  to  I  larvard  College, 
but  he  breathed  in  the  society  of  his  mother  and  her  friends  an  atmosphere  of 
high  moral  and  religious  tension.  While  at  college  he  taught  school  during 
the  holidays,  an<'  after  liis  graduation  he  employed  a  part  of  his  time  in  f-.ch- 
ing,  while  studying  for  the  ministry.  In  1829  he  was  called  to  the  Second 
Church  in  Boston,  a  charge  which  he  resigned  after  a  few  years  on  the 
ground  of  scruples  that  ha<l  arisen  in  his  mind  al)out  the  practice  of  vol- 
untary prayer  and  of  the  communion.  His  health  was  not  good,  and  a 
voyage  to  the  Mediterranean  was  recommended.  This  journey,  like  the  others 
he  afterwareb  undertook  to  Europe,  made  less  impression  upon  his  imagination 
or  opinions  than  might  have  been  expected.  His  chief  interest  in  travelling 
was  to  meet  a  few  distinguished  men,  whose  works  he  already  valued  — 
Coleridge,  Wordsworth,  Landor,  De  Quincey,  and  Carlyle,  with  the  last  of 
whom  he  formed  a  strong  literary  friendship.  On  his  return  home  he  began 
to  deliver  lectures,  at  first  on  subjects  connected  with  natural  science ;  and  lect- 
uring continued  to  be  his  chief  means  of  earning  money  for  the  rest  of  his 
life.  In  1834  he  went  to  live  in  Concord,  Mass.,  which  ever  after  remained 
his  home.  There  he  became  the  centre  of  a  literary  circle  which  included 
Thoreau,  Bronsou  Alcott,  and  Margaret  Fuller,  to  whose  organ,  The  Dial, 
he  occasionally  contributed.  He  died  April  27,  1882,  a  partial  loss  of  mem- 
ory having  been  a  pathetic  incident  of  his  declining  years. 

Emerson's  principal  publications  were  as  follows:  Nature,  1836.  The 
American  Scholar,  \%yi.  jS'wrtj'J,  first  series,  184 1 ;  second  series,  1844.  Rep- 
resentative Men,  x'^'ip.  English  Traits,  \%'j(>.  Conduct  of  L:fe,\ZfK>.  Society 
and  Solituile,  iS'jo.  Letters  and  Social  Aims,  1875.  His  coi-respondence  with  , 
Carlyle  was  afterwards  edited  by  C.  E.  Norton.  The  best  life  of  Emerson  is 
that  by  J.  E.  Cabot.] 

Those  who  knew  Emerson,  or  who  stood  so  near  to  his  time 
and  to  his  circle  that  they  caught  some  echo  of  his  personal  influ- 
ence, did  not  judge  of  him  merely  as  a  poet  and  philosopher,  nor 
identify  his  efficacy  with  that  of  his  writings.  His  friends  and  neigh- 
bors, the  congregations  he  preached  to  in  his  younger  days,  the 

.87 


I 


-j'aiii^^^jtgaKVft'if.i*j'-j-.;i'iJ^vi'i''.J.'^'^.-'!a*'Hl'ji!-'yj^ 


1 88 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


audiences  that  afterwards  listened  to  his  lectures,  all  agreed  in  a 
veneration  for  his  |)crson  that  had  nothing  to  do  with  their  under- 
standing or  acceptam  e  of  his  opinions.  They  llocked  to  him  and 
listened  to  his  word,  not  so  much  for  the  sake  of  its  absolute 
meaning  as  for  the  atmosphere  of  candor,  purity,  and  serenity 
that  hung  about  it,  as  about  a  sort  of  sacred  music.  They  felt 
themselves  in  the  presence  of  a  rare  and  beautiful  spirit,  who  was 
in  communication  with  a  higher  world.  More  than  the  truth  his 
teaching  might  express,  they  valued  the  sense  it  gave  them  of  a 
truth  that  was  inexpressible.  They  became  aware,  if  we  may  say 
so,  of  the  ultra-violet  rays  of  hia  spectrum,  of  the  inaudible  highest 
notes  of  his  gamut,  too  pure  and  thin  for  common  cars. 

Yet  the  j^ersonal  impression  I'jiicrson  may  have  produced  is  but 
a  small  part  of  his  claim  to  general  recognition.  This  must  ulti- 
mately rest  on  his  jjublished  works,  on  his  collected  essays  and 
poems.  His  method  of  composition  was  to  gather  miscellaneous 
thoughts  together  in  note-books  and  journals,  and  then,  as  occasion 
oflered,  to  cull  those  that  bore  on  the  same  subject  or  could  serve 
to  illustrate  the  same  general  train  of  thought,  and  to  piece  a  lect- 
ure out  of  them.  This  method  has  the  important  advantage  of 
packing  the  page  with  thought  and  observation,  so  that  it  deserves 
to  be  reread  and  pondered  ;  but  it  is  incompatible  with  continuity 
of  thought  or  unity  and  permanence  of  impression.  A  style  of 
point  and  counterpoint,  where  the  emphasis  attained  by  condensa- 
tion and  epigram  is  not  reserved  for  the  leading  ideas,  but  gives  an 
artificial  vividness  to  every  part,  must  tend  to  make  the  whole  in- 
distinct and  inconclusive.  The  fact  that  the  essays  were  lectures 
led  to  another  characteristic  which  is  now  to  be  regretted.  They 
are  peppered  by  local  allusions  and  illustrations  drawn  from  the 
literary  or  scientific  novelties  of  the  hour.  These  devices  may  have 
served  to  keep  an  audience  awake,  but  they  were  always  unworthy 
of  the  subject,  and  they  now  distract  the  reader,  who  loses  the 
perennial  interest  of  the  thought  in  the  quaintness  or  obscurity  of 
the  expression.  Yet,  in  spite  of  faults,  Emerson's  style  is  well  fitted 
to  his  purpose  and  genius  :  it  nas  precision,  picturesqueness,  often 
a  great  poetic  beauty  and  charm,  with  the  eloquence  that  comes 
of  ingenuous  conviction  and  of  dwelling  habitually  among  high 
things.    The  very  element  of  oddity,  the  arbitrary  choice  of  quota- 


-*>!»^iw**?(»ffi; 


I  agreed  in  a 
1  their  utuler- 
cl  to  him  and 
Its  ai>soliite 
and  serenity 
:.  They  felt 
)irit,  who  was 
the  truth  his 
ve  them  of  a 
f  we  may  say 
idihle  highest 
rs. 

aduced  is  but 
his  must  ulti- 
d  essays  and 
miscellaneous 
n,  as  occasion 
)r  could  serve 
I  piece  a  lect- 
advantage  of 
lat  it  deserves 
ith  continuity 
1.  A  style  of 
by  condensa- 
>,  but  gives  an 
the  whole  in- 
were  lectures 
retted.  They 
iwn  from  the 
ices  may  have 
rays  unworthy 
vho  loses  the 
r  obscurity  of 
e  is  well  fitted 
queness,  often 
:e  that  comes 
f  among  high 
oice  of  quota- 


'':sr'vim^' 


RALPH   WAI.DO  KMEKSON 


189 


tions  and  illustrations,  is  not  without  its  charm,  suggesting,  as  it 
does,  the  autiior's  provincial  solitutle  and  jjcrsonal  savor.  Taken 
separately,  and  witii  the  sympathetic  cooperation  of  the  reader's 
fancy,  his  pages  are  inspiring  and  eloipient  in  a  high  degree,  the 
best  paragraphs  being  sublime  without  obscurity,  and  convincing 
without  argumentation. 

The  themes  treated  seem  at  first  sight  various  —  biography,  liter- 
ary criticism,  natural  science,  morals,  and  metaphysics.  Hut  the 
initiated  reader  will  find  that  the  same  topics  and  turns  of  thought 
recur  under  every  title :  we  may  expect  under  "  Friendship  "  as 
much  moral  cosmology  under  "  Fate,"  and  under  "  Science  " 
as  many  oriental  anecdotes  as  under  "  Worship."  The  real  subject 
is  everywhere  the  same.  As  a  preacher  might  under  every  text 
enforce  the  same  lessons  of  tiie  gospel,  so  Emerson  traces  in  every 
sphere  the  same  spiritual  laws  of  experience  —  compensation,  con- 
tinuity, the  self-expression  of  the  soul  in  the  forms  of  nature  and 
of  society,  until  she  finally  recognizes  herself  in  her  own  work,  and 
sees  its  beneficence  and  beauty.  The  power  of  thought,  or  rather, 
perhaps,  of  imagination,  is  his  single  theme :  its  power  first  to 
make  the  world,  then  to  understand  it,  and  finally  to  rise  above  it. 
All  nature  is  an  embodiment  of  our  native  fimcy,  and  all  history  a 
drama,  in  which  the  innate  possibilities  of  our  spirit  are  enacted 
and  realized.  While  the  conflict  of  life  and  the  shocks  of  experi- 
ence seem  to  bring  us  fiice  to  face  with  an  alien  and  overwhelming 
power,  reflection  can  humanize  and  rationalize  the  power  by  dis- 
covering its  laws ;  and  with  this  recognition  of  the  rationality  of 
all  things  comes  the  sense  of  their  beauty  and  order.  The  very 
destruction  which  nature  seems  to  prepare  for  our  special  hopes  is 
thus  seen  to  be  the  victory  of  our  deeper  and  impersonal  interests. 
To  awaken  in  us  this  spiritual  insight,  an  elevation  of  mind  which 
is  an  act  at  once  of  comprehension  and  of  worship,  to  substitute 
it  for  lower  passions  and  more  servile  forms  of  intelligence  —  that 
is  Emerson's  constant  effort.  All  his  resources  of  illustration,  of 
observation,  rhetoric,  and  paradox,  are  used  to  deepen  and  clarify 
this  sort  of  wisdom. 

Such  thought  is  essentially  the  same  that  is  found  in  the  German 
romantic  or  idealistic  philosophers,  with  whom  Emerson's  affinity 
is  remarkable,  all  the  more  as  he  seems  to  have  borrowed  little  or 


'umjij>aa«i{u|jy,j'^j,i;jgjj|fBiji'Ji!!ijii<i  iiiii«jiii«i^«jtjn>,^»?w"iT'«'i,'.u'  "*  iii'iniijiiiniii  -minrnnrir 


Jm 


190 


.iMKKICAN  I'A'O.S/i 


nutlun}{  from  their  works.  I'lu-  reseinhlancx-  may  l)e  accounted 
for,  perhaps,  by  the  similar  cimditions  that  existed  in  the  religious 
thouglil  of  that  time  in  Cicrniany  and  in  New  Knj^land.  In  noth 
countries  tlie  abandonment,  on  the  part  of  the  new  school  of 
philosophy,  of  all  allegiance  to  the  traditional  theoloj^y,  coincided 
with  a  va^ne  enthusiasm  for  science  and  with  a  (juickcning  of 
national  and  humanitarian  hopes.  The  critics  of  human  nature, 
<luring  the  eij;hteenth  century,  had  shown  how  much  men's  ideas 
jf  things  dependeil  on  their  natural  predispositions,  on  the  char- 
acter of  their  senses,  and  the  habits  of  their  intelligence.  Seizing 
upon  this  thought,  and  exaggerating  it,  the  romantic  philosophers 
attributed  to  the  spirit  of  man  that  omnipotence  which  had 
belonged  to  (lod,  and  felt  that  in  this  way  they  were  reasserting 
the  supremacy  of  mind  over  matter  and  establishing  it  upon  a  safe 
and  rational  basis.  The  dermans  were;  great  system-makers,  and 
Kmerson  cannot  rival  them  in  the  sui^tained  effort  of  thought  by 
which  they  sought  to  reinterjjret  every  sphere  of  being  according 
to  their  chosen  principles.  On  the  other  hand,  those  who  are 
distrustful  of  a  too  systematic  and  complete  philosophy,  especially 
of  this  transcendental  sort,  will  regard  it  as  a  fortunate  incapacity 
in  ICmerson  that  he  was  never  able  to  trace  out  and  defend  the 
universal  implications  of  any  of  his  ideas,  and  never  wrote,  for  in- 
stance, the  oook  he  had  once  planned  on  the  law  of  compensation. 
A  happy  instinct  made  him  always  prefer  a  fresh  statement  on  a 
fresh  subject,  and  deterred  him  from  repeating  or  defending  his 
trains  of  thought.  A  suggestion  once  given,  the  spirit  once  aroused 
to  speculation,  a  glimpse  once  gained  of  some  ideal  harmony,  he 
preferred  to  descend  again  to  common  sense  and  to  touch  the 
earth  for  a  moment  before  another  flight.  The  faculty  of  idealiza- 
tion was  in  itself  what  he  valued.  Philosophy  for  him  was  rather 
a  moral  energy  flowering  into  sprightliness  of  thought  than  a  body 
of  serious  am',  defensible  doctrines.  And  in  practising  transcen- 
dental speculation  only  in  this  poetic  and  sporadic  fashion, 
PvUierson  vas  perhaps  retaining  its  truest  value  and  avoiding  its 
gic"aicst  danger.  He  secured  the  freedom  and  fertility  of  his  in- 
telligence, and  did  not  allow  one  conception  of  law  or  one  hint 
of  harmony  to  sterilize  the  mind  and  prevent  the  subsequent  birth 
of  other  ideas,  no  less  just  and  inspiring  than  itself.     For  we  are 


V*  v»."< 


s-is^sas---!*  i 


RAI.ril    WAI.no   EMEKSON 


191 


)e  accounted 
llu"  rclij-iious 
11(1.      Ill  ootli 
w   school  of 
g>,  coincided 
iiickeninf;  of 
innan  nature, 
nit'ii's  ideas 
on  the  char- 
nce.     Seizing 
philosophers 
e   which   had 
re  reasserting 
it  ui)on  a  safe 
1- makers,  and 
of  thought  by 
ing  according 
liose  who  are 
iiy,  especially 
ite  incapacity 
d  defend  the 
wrote,  for  in- 
:ompensation. 
latement  on  a 
defending  his 
once  aroused 
!  harmony,  he 
to  touch  the 
Ity  of  idealiza- 
im  was  rather 
t  than  a  body 
iing  transcen- 
adic   fashion, 
1  avoiding  its 
lity  of  his  in- 
'  or  one  hint 
isequent  birth 
For  we  are 


not  dealing  at  all  in  such  a  philosophy  with  matters  of  fact,  or  with 
such  vurifiabic  truths  as  ex(  hide  their  ojiposites,  l)ut  only  with  the 
art  of  conception  and  the  various  forms  in  which  reflection,  like  a 
poet,  can  com|)ose  and  recompose  human  exper.ence. 

If  we  ask  ourselves  what  was  Mmerson's  relation  to  the  scientific 
and  religious  movements  of  his  time,  and  what  place  he  may  claim 
in  the  history  of  opinion,  we  must  answer  that  he  belonged  very 
little  to  the  past,  very  little  to  the  present,  and  almost  wholly  to 
that  abstract  sphere  into  which  mystical  and  phdosophic  aspiration 
has  carried  a  few  men  in  all  ages.  The  religiouK  tradition  in 
which  he  was  reared  v  as  that  of  i'nritanism,  but  of  a  Puritanism 
wh".*!,  retaining  its  moral  intensity  and  metaphysical  abstractness, 
had  niinimizeil  its  doctrinal  expression  and  become  Unitarian. 
Emerson  was  indeed  the  i'syche  of  Puritanism,  "  the  latest  born 
and  fairest  vision  lar "  of  all  that  "  faded  hierarchy."  A  Puritan 
whose  religion  was  all  poetry,  a  poet  whose  only  pleasure  was 
thought,  he  showed  in  his  life  and  personality  the  meagreness, 
the  constraint,  the  conscious  aloofness  and  consecration  which 
belonged  to  his  clerical  ancestors,  while  his  personal  spirit  r;  nged 
abroad  over  the  fielils  of  history  and  nature,  gathering  what  ideas 
it  might,  and  singing  its  little  snatches  of  inspired  song. 

The  traditional  element  was  thus  rather  an  external  and  un- 
essential contribution  to  iMiierson's  mind  ;  he  had  the  professional 
tinge,  the  decorum,  and  the  distinction  of  an  old-fashioned  divine  ; 
he  had  also  the  habit  of  writing  sermons,  and  he  had  the  national 
pride  and  hope  of  a  religious  people  that  felt  itself  providentially 
chosen  to  establish  a  free  and  godly  commonwealth  in  a  new 
world.  For  the  rest  he  separated  himself  from  the  ancient  creed 
of  the  community  with  a  sense  rather  of  relief  than  of  regret.  A 
literal  belief  in  Christian  doctrines  repelled  him  as  unspiritual,  as 
manifesting  no  understanding  of  the  meaning  which,  as  allegories, 
those  doctrines  might  have  to  a  philosophic  and  poetical  spirit. 
Although  as  a  clergyman  he  was  at  first  in  the  habit  of  referring  to 
the  Bible  and  its  lessons  as  to  a  supreme  authority,  he  had  no 
instinctive  sympathy  with  ihe  inspiration  of  either  the  Old  or  the 
New  Testament ;  in  Hafiz  or  Plutarch,  in  Plato  or  Shakspere,  he 
found  more  congenial  stuff.  To  reject  tradition  and  think  as  one 
might  have  thought  if  no  man  had  ever  existed  before  was  indeed 


^y^SStMS' 


*^,ir\\ 


''Ocrii.-''',!->",'"''".'»'iiji',''"*"''*'*''^*»>*'' 


193 


AMl-.h'HAS  I'KOSK 


! 


I 


i 


the  aspiration  of  the  'I'ransccmiciitaliHts,  and  althoii^li  Kmcrson 
hardly  ro[;.ir<lod  Ininsolf  as  a  nicnibfr  of  tliat  school,  lir  l.irj^cly 
shiircd  ill  tiiidcncy  and  passed  for  its  spokesman.  IJoth  by  tem- 
perament an<l  cunviction  lie  was  ready  to  open  his  mind  to  all 
philoMJiiliic  inlliR'iK  es,  from  wliatever  (piartcr  they  might  Itlow  ; 
the  lessons  of  s(  ieiic  e  and  the  divinations  of  poetry  e(nild  work 
themselves  out  in  him  into  a  free  and  personal  religion. 

The  most  nnportant  part  of  Mmerson's  Puritan  heritaj^e  was  the 
habit  of  worship  wliuh  was  innate  in  hnn,  the  interallied  tendency 
to  revere  the  Power  that  works  in  the  world,  whatever  nii|L;ht 
aj^pcar  to  he  the  character  of  its  operation.  This  pious  attitude 
was  originally  justified  by  the  belief  in  a  |)ersonal  (Jod  and  in  a 
providential  j^overnment  of  human  affairs,  but  survives  as  a  reli- 
gious instinct  after  those  |)ositive  beliefs  had  faded  away  into  a 
recognition  of  "  .spiritual  laws."  The  spirit  of  conformity,  the 
unction,  and  the  loyalty  even  unto  death  ins|)ircd  by  the  religion 
of  Jehov.di,  were  dispoiitions  acquired  iiy  too  long  a  discipline, 
anil  rooted  in  too  many  forms  of  speech,  of  thought,  and  of  wor- 
ship for  a  man  like  Kinerson,  wiio  had  felt  their  full  force,  ever  to 
b<;  able  to  lose  lliem.  'I'he  evolutioiis  of  his  abstract  opinions  left 
that  hal)it  undisturijcd.  Unless  we  keep  this  circumstance  in 
mind,  we  shall  not  understand  the  kind  of  elation  and  sacred  joy, 
so  characteristic  of  his  elcxpience,  with  which  he  propounds  laws 
of  nature,  and  asjjects  of  exjierience  which,  viewed  in  tiiemselves, 
often  alTord  but  an  cipiivocal  support  to  moral  enthusiasm.  An 
optimism  so  persistent  and  unclouded  as  his  will  seem  at  variance 
with  the  description  he  himself  gives  of  human  life,  a  description 
colored  by  a  poetic  idealism,  but  hardly  by  an  optimistic  bias. 
We  must  remember,  therefore,  that  Calvinism  had  known  how  to 
combine  an  awestruck  devotion  to  the  su])reme  being  with  no 
very  roseate  picture  of  the  destinies  of  mankind,  and  for  more 
than  two  hundred  years  hatl  been  breeding  in  the  stock  from 
which  Emerson  came  a  willingness  to  be"  damned  for  the  glory  of 
Ood."  What  wonder,  then,  that  when  for  the  former  inexorable 
dispensation  of  Providence,  Emerson  substituted  his  general  spirit- 
ual and  natural  laws  he  should  not  have  felt  the  spirit  of  worship 
fail  within  him  ?  On  the  contrary,  his  tliought  moved  in  the  pres- 
ence of  moral  harmonies  which  seemed  to  him  truer,  more  beauti- 


'""     '■»Miy''^»'yfefti3«iej>jsg 


igl)  l''.incrs()n 
)l,  In-  l.irj^fly 
ioth  I))'  tcm- 
mind  to  nil 
niiglit  l)l()\v  ; 
y  « oiild  work 
II. 

ita^^c  was  the 
iL-(l  tcmlciicy 
;itever  minht 
ions  attitude 
lod  and  in  a 
ves  as  a  reli- 
away  into  a 
iforniity,  the 
the  reiif^ion 
a  discipline, 
,  and  of  wor- 
force,  ever  to 
oi)inions  left 
iimstance  in 
(1  sacred  joy, 
ipotuids  laws 
1  tiicmseives, 
lusiasm.  An 
n  at  variance 
I  description 
timistic  bias, 
nown  how  to 
sing  with  no 
nd  for  more 
;  stock  from 
•  the  glory  of 
;r  inexorable 
;eneral  spirit- 
it  of  worship 
1  in  the  pres- 
morc  beaiiti- 


RAI.ril    WAl.nO  EMF.RSON 


193 


fill,  and  more  heneficent  than  those  of  the  old  theology;  and 
althouKh  an  indeiicndcnt  philosopher  miKht  not  have  seen  in 
those  harmonies  an  object  of  worship  or  a  siiflicient  basis  for  opti- 
mism, he  who  was  not  primarily  a  philosopher  but  a  Puritan 
mystic  with  a  poetic  fancy  and  a  ^ift  for  observation  and  epigram, 
saw  in  them  only  a  more  intelligible  form  of  the  divinity  he  had 
always  recognized  and  ailorcd.  Mis  was  not  a  philos()|)hy  passing 
into  religion,  but  a  religion  expressing  itself  as  a  pliilos  )phy,  and 
veiled  a-*  it  descended  the  heavens  in  various  tints  of  poetry  aiul 
reason. 

While  Kmerson  thus  preferred  to  withdraw,  without  ramor  and 
without  contempt,  from  the  an(  ienl  fellowship  of  the  church,  he 
assmned  an  attitude  hardly  less  cool  and  deprecatory  towards  the 
enthusiasms  of  the  new  era.  The  national  idea  of  democracy  ami 
freedom  had  hi.,  complete  sympatliy  ;  he  allowed  himself  to  be 
<lrawn  into  the  movement  against  slavery ;  he  took  a  curious  ami 
smiling  interest  in  the  discoveries  of  natural  scienc  e,  and  in  the 
material  i)rogress  of  the  age.  Hut  he  could  go  no  (iirther.  His 
contemplative  nature,  his  religious  training,  his  (lis|)ersed  reading, 
made  him  stand  aside  from  the  life  of  the  wodd,  even  while  he 
studied  it  with  benevolent  attention.  His  heart  was  fixed  on  eternal 
things,  and  he  was  in  no  sense  a  prophet  for  his  age  and  country. 
He  belongs  by  nature  to  that  mystical  company  of  devout  souls 
that  recognize  no  particular  home,  and  are  dispersed  throughout 
history,  although  not  without  intercommunication.  He  felt  his 
affinity  with  the  Hindoos  and  the  Persians,  with  the  Platonists  and 
the  Stoics.  Like  them  he  remains  "  a  friend  and  aider  of  those 
who  would  live  in  the  spirit."  If  not  a  star  of  the  first  magni- 
tude, he  is  certainly  a  fixed  star  in  the  firmament  of  philosophy. 
Alone  as  yet  among  Americans,  he  may  be  s•^id  to  have  won  a 
place  there,  if  not  by  the  originality  of  his  thought,  at  least  by  the 
originality  and  beauty  of  the  expression  he  gave  to  thoughts  that 
are  old  and  imperishable. 

George  Santa v ana 


ciW**?,i.*'4ia5!Kirf' 


'^'■'Jl'JJllJiiyj'.^'^.r^^li'^^ 


194 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


THE    SCHOLAR 

I  HAVE  now  spoken  of  the  education  of  the  scholar  by  nature, 
by  books,  and  by  action.     It  remains  to  say  somewhat  of  his  duties. 

They  are  such  as  becomo  Man  Thinking.  They  may  ail  be  com- 
prised in  self-trust.  The  oftice  of  the  scholar  is  to  cheer,  to  raise, 
and  to  guide  men  by  showing  them  facts  amidst  appearances. 
He  plies  the  slow,  unhonored,  and  unpaid  task  of  observation. 
Flamsteed  and  Heischel,  in  their  glazed  observatories,  may  cata- 
logue the  stars  with  the  praise  of  all  men,  and,  the  results  being 
splendid  and  useful,  honor  is  sure.  Hut  he,  in  his  private  observa- 
tory, cataloguing  obscure  and  nebulous  stars  of  the  human  mind, 
which  as  yet  no  man  has  thought  of  as  such,  —  watching  days  and 
months,  sometimes,  for  a  few  flicts  ;  correcting  still  his  old  records  ; 
— must  ro'inquish  display  and  immediate  fame.  In  the  long  period 
of  his  preparation  he  must  betray  often  an  ignorance  and  shiftless- 
ness  in  pojiular  arts,  incurring  the  disdain  of  the  able  who  shoul- 
der him  aside.  Long  he  must  stammer  in  his  speech  ;  often  forego 
the  living  for  the  dead.  W^orse  yet,  he  must  accept,  —  how  often  ! 
poverty  and  solitude.  For  the  ease  and  pleasure  of  treading  the 
old  road,  accepting  the  fashions,  the  education,  the  religion  of 
society,  he  takes  the  cross  of  making  his  own,  and,  of  course,  the 
self-accusation,  the  fiiint  heart,  the  frequent  uncertainty  and  loss 
of  time,  which  are  the  nettles  and  tangling  vines  in  the  way  of 
the  self-relying  and  self-directed  ;  and  the  state  of  virtual  hostility 
in  which  he  seems  to  stand  to  society,  and  especially  to  educated 
society.  For  all  this  loss  and  scorn,  what  offset?  He  is  to  find 
conso'.ation  in  exercising  the  highest  functions  of  human  nature. 
He  is  one,  who  raises  himself  from  private  considerations  and 
breathes  and  lives  on  public  and  illustrious  thoughts.  He  is  the 
world's  eye.  He  is  the  world's  heart.  He  is  to  resist  the  vulgar 
prosperity  that  retrogrades  ever  to  barbarism,  by  preserving  and 
communicating  heroic  sentiments,  noble  biographies,  melodious 
verse,  and  the  conclusions  of  history.  Whatsoever  oracles  the 
human  heart  in  all  emergencies,  in  all  solemn  hours,  has  uttered 
as  its  commentary  on  the  world  of  actions,  —  these  he  shall  receive 
and  impart.     And  whatsoever  new  verdict  Rensoa  from  her  inviola- 


I 

liiii 


— ^       'ijiMLmi-ijiwR-^r^ 


RALPH    WALDO  EMERSON 


195 


•lar  by  nature, 
t  of  his  duties, 
ay  all  be  coni- 
;heer,  to  raise, 

appearances. 
f  observation, 
ies,  may  cata- 

results  being 
ivate  observa- 
human  mind, 
liing  days  and 
s  okl  records ; 
lie  long  period 

and  shiftless- 
)le  who  shoul- 
;  often  forego 
—  how  often  ! 
F  treading  the 
le  religion  of 
of  course,  the 
ainty  and  loss 
in  the  way  of 
irtual  hostility 
y  to  educated 
He  is  to  find 
luman  nature, 
derations  and 
3.  He  is  the 
list  the  vulgar 
reserving  and 
es,  melodious 
;r  oracles  the 
s,  has  uttered 
e  shall  receive 
m  her  inviola- 


ble seat  pronounces  on  the  passing  men  and  events  of  to-day,  — 
this  he  shall  hear  and  promulgate. 

These  being  his  functions,  it  becomes  him  to  feel  all  confidence 
in  himself,  and  to  defer  never  to  the  popular  cry.  He  and  he  only 
knows  the  world.  The  world  of  any  moment  is  the  merest  appear- 
ance. Some  great  decorum,  some  fetish  of  a  government,  some 
ephemeral  trade,  or  war,  or  man,  is  cried  up  by  half  mankind  and 
cried  down  by  the  other  half,  as  if  all  depended  on  this  particular 
up  or  down.  The  odds  are  that  the  whole  question  is  not  worth 
the  poorest  thought  which  the  scholar  hi.3  lost  in  listening  to  the 
controversy.  Let  him  not  quit  his  belief  that  a  popgun  is  a  pop- 
gun, though  the  ancient  and  honorable  of  the  earth  affirm  it  to  be 
the  crack  of  doom.  In  silence,  in  steadiness,  in  severe  abstrac- 
tion, let  him  hold  by  himself;  add  observation  to  observation, 
patient  of  neglect,  patient  of  reproach,  and  bide  his  own  time, 

happy  enough,  if  he  can  satisfy  himself  alone,  that  this  day  he 

has  seen  something  truly.  Success  treads  on  every  right  step. 
For  the  instinct  is  sure,  that  prompts  him  to  tell  his  brother  what 
he  thinks.  He  then  learns,  that  in  going  down  into  the  secrets  of 
his  own  mind  he  has  descended  into  the  secrets  of  all  minds.  He 
learns  that  he  who  has  mastered  any  law  in  his  private  thoughts,  is 
master  to  that  extent  of  all  men  whose  language  he  speaks,  and  of 
all  into  whose  language  his  own  can  be  translated.  The  poet,  in 
utter  solitude  remembering  his  spontaneous  thoughts  and  record- 
ing them,  is  found  to  have  recorded  that  which  men  in  "  cities 
vast"  find  true  for  them  also.  The  orator  distrusts  at  first  the  fit- 
ness of  his  frank  confessions,  —  his  want  of  knowledge  of  the  persons 
he  addresses,  —  until  he  finds  that  lie  is  the  complement  of  his  hear- 
ers ;  —  that  they  drink  his  words  because  he  fulfils  for  them  their 
own  nature ;  the  deeper  he  dives  into  his  privatest,  secretest  pre- 
sentiment, to  his  wonder  he  finds,  this  is  the  most  acceptable, 
most  public,  and  universally  true.  The  people  delight  in  it ;  the 
better  part  of  every  man  feels,  This  is  my  music  ;  this  is  myself. 

In  self-trust  all  the  virtues  are  comprehended.  Free  should  the 
scholar  be,  —  free  and  brave.  Free  even  to  the  definition  of 
freedom,  "  without  any  hindrance  that  does  not  arise  out  of  his 
own  constitution."  Brave  ;  for  fear  is  a  thing  which  a  scholar  by 
his  very  function  puts  behind  him.     Fear  always  springs  from 


# 


'ibt}?5;«'i«'V!<jwteteJg^.^s»a'a>!%^!'a.\»i''"^^^ 


196 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


ignorance.  It  is  a  shame  to  him  if  his  tranquillity,  amid  danger- 
•ous  times,  arise  from  the  presumption  that,  like  children  and 
women,  his  is  a  protected  class  ;  or  if  he  seek  a  temporar)  peace 
by  the  diversion  of  his  thoughts  from  politics  or  vexed  ([uestions, 
hiding  his  head  like  an  ostrich  in  the  rlowering  bushes,  peeping 
into  nHcrosco[)es,  and  turning  rhymes,  as  a  boy  whistles  to  keep 
his  courage  up.  So  is  the  danger  a  danger  still ;  so  is  the  fear 
worse.  Manlike  let  him  turn  and  face  it.  Let  him  look  into  its 
eye  and  search  its  nature,  inspect  its  origin, —  see  the  whelping  of 
this  lion, —  which  lies  no  great  way  back ;  he  will  then  find  in 
himself  a  perfect  comprehension  of  its  nature  and  extent ;  he  will 
have  made  his  hands  meet  on  the  other  side,  and  can  henceforth 
defy  it,  and  pass  on  superior.  The  world  is  his,  who  can  see 
through  its  pretension.  What  deafness,  what  stone-blind  custom, 
what  overgrown  error  you  behold,  is  there  only  by  sufferance,  — 
by  your  sufferance.  See  it  to  be  a  lie,  and  you  have  already  dealt 
it  its  mortal  blow. 

Yes,  we  are  the  cowed,  —  we  the  trustless.  It  is  a  mischievous 
notion  that  we  are  come  late  into  nature ;  that  the  world  was 
finished  a  long  time  ago.  As  the  world  was  plastic  and  fluid  in 
the  hands  of  God,  so  it  is  ever  to  so  much  of  his  attributes  as  we 
bring  to  it.  To  ignorance  and  sin,  it  is  flint.  They  adapt  them- 
selves to  it  as  they  may ;  but  in  proportion  as  a  man  has  any- 
thing in  him  divine,  the  firmament  flows  before  him  and  takes  his 
signet  and  form.  Not  he  is  great  who  can  alter  matter,  but  he 
who  can  alter  my  state  of  mind.  They  are  the  kings  of  the  world 
who  give  the  color  of  their  present  thought  to  all  nature  and  all 
art,  and  persuade  men  by  the  cheerful  serenity  of  their  carrying 
the  matter,  that  this  thing  which  they  do  is  the  apple  which  the 
ages  have  desired  to  pluck,  now  at  last  ripe,  and  inviting  nations 
to  the  harvest.  The  great  man  makes  the  great  thing.  Wherever 
Macdonald  sits,  there  is  the  head  of  the  table,  l.innzeus  makes 
botany  the  most  allunng  of  studies  and  wins  it  from  the  farmer 
and  the  herb- woman ;  Davy,  chemistry;  and  Cuvier,  fossils.  The 
day  is  always  his,  who  work^  in  it  with  serenity  and  great 
aims.  The  unstable  estimates  of  men  crowd  to  him  whose  mind 
is  filled  with  a  truth,  as  the  heaped  waves  of  the  Atlantic  follow 
the  moon. 


BjBKsnsisa^g^lsisfe*', 


amiil  danger- 
children  and 
iporar)  peace 
ed  ([uestions, 
shes,  peei)ing 
sties  to  keep 
lo  is  the  fear 

look  into  its 
;  whelping  of 

then  find  in 
tent ;  he  will 
m  henceforth 
who  can  see 
jlind  custom, 
sufferance,  — 

already  dealt 

i  mischievous 
le  world  was 

and  fluid  in 
ributes  as  we 

adapt  them- 
nan  has  any- 
md  takes  his 
latter,  but  he 

of  the  world 
ature  and  all 
;heir  carrying 
)le  whicli  the 
/iting  nations 
5.  Wherever 
nnseus  makes 
n  the  farmer 

fossils.  The 
y   and   great 

whose  mind 
tiantic  follow 


^wrartansKa^asMSsstes, 


RALPH    WALDO    hMERSON 


197 


For  this  self-trust,  the  reason  is  deeper  than  can  be  fathomed, 
—  darker  than  can  be  enlightened.  I  might  not  carry  with  me 
the  feeling  of  my  audience  iu  stating  my  own  belief.  But  I  have 
already  shown  the  ground  of  my  hope,  in  adverting  to  the  doc- 
trine that  man  is  one.  I  believe  that  man  has  been  wronged  ;  he 
has  wronged  himself  He  has  almost  lost  the  light,  that  can  lead 
him  back  to  his  prerogatives.  Men  are  become  of  no  account. 
Men  in  history,  men  in  the  world  of  to-day  are  bugs,  are  spawn, 
and  are  called  "  the  mass"  and  "the  herd."  In  a  century,  in  a 
millennium,  one  or  two  men  ;  that  is  to  say, — one  or  two  approx- 
imations to  the  right  state  of  every  man.  All  the  rest  behold  in 
the  hero  oi'the  poet  their  own  green  and  -^rude  being,  —  ripened  ; 
yes,  and  are  content  to  be  less,  so  thai  may  attain  to  its  full 
stature.  What  a  testimony,  —  full  of  gri;ndeur,  full  of  pity,  —  is 
borne  to  the  demands  of  his  own  nature,  by  the  poor  clansman,  the 
poor  partisan,  who  rejoices  in  the  glory  of  his  chief.  The  poor 
and  the  low  find  some  amends  to  their  immense  moral  capacity, 
for  their  acquiescence  in  ,'■  political  and  social  inferiority.  They 
are  content  to  be  brushed  like  flies  from  the  path  of  a  great  per- 
son, so  that  justice  shall  be  done  by  him  to  that  common  nature 
which  it  is  the  dearest  desire  of  all  to  see  enlarged  and  glorified. 
They  sun  themselves  in  the  great  man's  light,  and  feel  it  to  be 
their  own  element.  They  cast  the  dignity  of  man  from  their 
downtrod  selves  upon  the  shoulders  of  a  hero,  and  will  perish  to 
add  one  drop  of  blood  to  make  that  great  heart  beat,  those  giant 
sinews  combat  and  concjuer.     He  lives  for  us,  and  we  live  in  him. 

Men  such  as  tiiey  are,  very  naturally  seek  money  or  power ; 
and  power  because  it  is  as  good  as  money,  —  the  "  spoils,"  so 
called,  "of  office."  And  why  not?  for  they  aspire  to  the  highest, 
and  this,  in  their  sleep-walking,  they  dream  is  highest.  Wake 
them  and  they  shall  quit  the  false  good  and  leap  to  the  true,  and 
leave  governments  to  clerks  and  desks.  This  revolution  is  to  be 
wrought  by  the  gradual  domestication  of  the  idea  of  Culture. 
The  main  enterprise  uf  the  world  for  splendor,  for  extent,  is  the 
upbuilding  of  a  man.  Here  are  the  materials  strown  along  the 
ground.  The  private  life  of  one  man  shall  be  a  more  illustrious 
monarchy,  —  more  formidable  to  its  enemy,  more  sweet  and 
serene  in  its  influence  10  its  friend,  than  any  kingdom  in  history. 


Wl'  tt'i '! I  J! '»!.■!  Jiiill.WWMiWWI 


198 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


For  a  man,  rightly  viewed,  comprehendeth  the  particular  natures 
of  all  men.  Ivich  philosopher,  each  bard,  each  actor,  has  only 
done  for  me,  as  by  a  delegate,  what  one  day  1  can  do  for  myself. 
The  books  which  once  we  valued  more  than  the  apple  of  the  eye, 
we  have  quite  exhausted.  What  is  that  but  saying,  that  we  have 
come  up  with  the  point  of  view  which  the  universal  mind  took 
through  the  eye  of  one  scribe  ;  we  have  been  that  man,  and  have 
passed  on.  First,  one  ;  then,  another  ;  v.-e  drain  all  cisterns,  and, 
waxing  greater  by  all  these  sup[)lies,  we  crave  a  better  and  more 
ubL'.ndant  food.  The  man  has  never  lived  that  can  feed  us  ever. 
The  human  mind  cannot  be  enshrined  in  a  person,  who  shall  set 
a  barrier  on  any  one  side  to  this  unbounded,  unboundable  empire. 
It  is  one  central  fire,  wliich,  flaming  now  out  o<"  the  lips  of  F^tna, 
lightens  the  capes  of  Sicily  ;  and,  now  out  of  the  throat  of  Vesu- 
vius, illuminates  the  towers  and  vineyards  of  Naples.  It  is  one 
light  which  beams  out  of  a  thousand  stars.  It  is  one  soul  which 
animates  all  men. 

[From  An  Oration  delivered  before  the  Phi  Beta  Kafpa  Society,  at  Cam- 
bridge \^Mass.'\,  Aug.  31,  iSjj.  Afterwards  known  as  "The  American 
Scholar."     From  the  text  of  the  second  edition,  1838.] 


SELF-RELIANCE 

It  is  for  want  of  self-culture  that  the  idol  of  Travelling,  the 
idol  of  Italy,  of  lingland,  of  Kgyi^t,  remains  for  all  educated 
Americans.  They  who  mn  le  lingland,  Italy,  or  (Ireece  venera- 
ble in  the  imagination,  did  so  not  by  rambling  round  creation  as 
a  moth  round  a  lamp,  but  by  sticking  fast  where  they  were,  like 
an  axis  of  the  earth.  In  manly  hours,  we  feel  that  duty  is  our 
place,  and  that  the  merrymen  of  circumstance  should  follow  as 
they  may.  The  soul  is  no  traveller  :  the  wise  man  stays  at  home 
with  the  soul,  and  when  his  necessities,  his  duties,  on  any  occasion 
call  him  from  his  house,  or  into  foreign  lands,  he  is  at  home  still, 
and  is  not  gadding  abroad  from  himself,  and  shall  make  men  sen- 
sible by  the  expression  of  his  countenance,  that  he  goes  the  mis- 
sionary of  wisdom  and  virtue,  and  visits  cities  and  men  like  a 
sovereign,  and  not  like  an  interloper  or  a  valet. 


mamufiiummmmimvmMM^^^^S^'' 


ular  natures 
or,  lias  only 
)  for  myself, 
of  the  eye, 
hat  we  have 
1  mind  took 
n,  and  have 
isterns,  and, 
sr  and  more 
:ed  us  ever, 
■ho  shall  set 
able  empire, 
ips  of  F^tna, 
)at  of  Vesu- 
,  It  is  one 
;  soul  which 


ciely,  at  Cam- 
rhe  American 


avelling,  the 
dl  educated 
;ece  venera- 

creation  as 
:y  were,  like 

duty  is  our 
Id  follow  as 
ays  at  home 
iny  occasion 
t  home  still, 
ke  men  sen- 
)es  the  mis- 
men  like  a 


wsMjawiJiSfciSi^^^^' 


:\, 


RALPH   WALDO  EMERSON 


199 


I  have  no  churlish  objection  to  the  circumnavigation  of  the 
globe,  for  the  purposes  of  art,  of  study,  and  benevolence,  so  that 
the  man  is  first  domesticated,  or  d(jes  not  go  abroad  with  the 
hope  of  finding  somewhat  greater  than  he  knows.  He  who  travels 
to  be  amused,  or  to  get  somewhat  which  he  does  not  carry, 
travels  away  from  himself,  and  grows  old  even  in  youth  among 
old  things.  In  Thebes,  in  Palmyra,  his  will  and  mind  have  be- 
come old  and  dilapidated  as  they.     He  carries  ruins  to  ruins. 

Travelling  is  a  fool's  paradise.  We  owe  to  our  first  journeys 
the  discovery  that  place  is  nothing.  At  home  I  dream  that  at 
Naples,  at  Rome,  I  can  be  intoxicated  with  beauty,  and  lose  my 
sadness.  I  pack  my  trunk,  embrace  my  friends,  embark  on  Oie 
sea,  and  at  last  wake  up  in  Naples,  and  there  beside  me  is  the 
stern  Fact,  the  sad  self,  unrelenting,  identical,  that  I  fled  from. 
I  seek  the  Vatican,  and  the  palaces.  T  affect  to  be  intoxicated 
with  sights  and  suggestions,  but  I  am  not  intoxicated.  My  giant 
goes  with  me  wherever  I  go. 

But  the  rage  of  travelling  is  itself  only  a  symptom  of  a  deeper 
unsoundness  affecting  the  whole  intellectual  action.  The  intellect 
is  vagabond,  and  the  universal  system  of  education  fosters  rest- 
lessness. Our  minds  travel  when  our  bodies  are  forced  to  stay 
at  home.  We  imitate  ;  and  what  is  imitation  but  the  travelling 
of  the  mind?  Our  houses  are  built  with  foreign  taste;  our 
shelves  are  garnished  with  foreign  ornaments;  our  opinions, 
our  tastes,  our  whole  minds  lean,  and  follow  the  Past  and  the 
Distant,  as  the  eyes  of  a  maid  follow  her  mistress.  The  soul 
created  the  arts  wherever  they  have  flourished.  It  was  in  his  own 
mind  that  the  artist  sought  his  model.  It  was  an  application  of 
his  own  thought  to  the  thing  to  be  done  and  the  conditions  to  be 
observed.  And  why  need  we  copy  the  Doric  or  the  Gothic 
model?  Beauty,  convenience,  grandeur  of  thought,  and  quaint 
expression  are  as  near  to  us  as  to  any,  and  if  the  American  artist 
will  study  with  hope  and  love  the  precise  thing  to  be  done  by 
him,  considering  the  climate,  the  soil,  the  length  of  the  day,  the 
wants  of  die  people,  the  habit  and  form  of  the  government,  he 
will  create  a  house  in  which  all  these  will  find  themselves  fitted, 
and  taste  and  sentiment  will  be  satisfied  also. 
Insist  on  yourself;  never  imitate.    Your  own  gift  you  can  pre- 


~;a.JW^>gwjiww!»iwiiMte»jimii)fc<iWWW 


200 


AMERICAN  FROSR 


H 


sent  every  nioineiU  with  the  (niimilative  force  of  a  whole  Hfe's 
cultivation  ;  hnt  of  the  adopted  talent  of  another,  you  have  only 
an  extemiioraneoiis,  half  possession.  That  which  each  can  do 
best,  none  but  his  Maker  can  teach  him.  No  man  yet  knows 
what  it  is,  nor  can,  till  that  person  has  exhibited  it.  Where  is 
the  master  who  could  hav"  taught  Shakespeare?  Where  is  ihe 
master  who  could  have  instructed  Franklin,  or  Washington,  or 
Hacon,or  Newton?  Fvery  great  man  is  an  unique.  The  Scipion- 
ism  of  Scipio  is  precisely  that  part  he  could  not  borrow.  If  any 
body  will  tell  me  whom  the  great  man  imitates  in  the  original 
crisis  when  he  performs  a  great  act,  I  will  tell  him  who  else  than 
himself  can  teach  him.  Shakespeare  will  never  be  made  by  the 
study  of  Shakespeare.  Do  that  which  is  assigned  thee,  and  thou 
canst  not  hope  too  much  or  dare  too  much.  There  is  at  this 
moment,  there  is  for  me  an  utterance  bare  and  grand  as  that  of 
the  colossal  chisel  of  Phidias,  or  trowel  of  the  Egyptians,  or  the 
pen  of  Moses,  or  Dante,  but  different  from  all  these.  Not  pos- 
sibly •  will  the  soul  all  rich,  all  eloquent,  with  thousand-cloven 
tongue,  deign  to  repeat  itself;  but  if  I  can  hear  what  these  patri- 
archs say,  surely  I  can  rei)ly  to  them  in  the  same  pitch  of  voice  : 
for  the  ear  and  the  tongue  are  two  organs  of  one  nature.  Dwell 
uj)  there  in  the  sim])le  and  noble  regions  of  thy  life,  obey  thy 
heart,  and  thou  shalt  reproduce  the  Foreworld  again. 

As  our  Religion,  our  Education,  our  Art  look  abroad,  so  does 
our  spirit  of  society.  All  men  plume  themselves  on  the  improve- 
ment of  society,  and  no  man  improves. 

Society  never  advances.  It  recedes  as  fast  on  one  side  as  it 
gains  on  the  other.  Its  progress  is  only  apparent,  like  the 
workers  of  a  treadmill.  It  undergoes  continual  changes :  it  is 
barbarous,  it  is  civilized,  it  is  Christianized,  it  is  rich,  it  is 
scientific  ;  but  this  change  is  not  amelioration.  For  everything 
that  is  given,  something  is  taken.  Society  acquires  new  arts  and 
loses  old  instincts.  What  a  contrast  between  the  well-clad,  read- 
ing, writing,  thinking  American,  with  a  watch,  a  pencil,  and  a 
bill  of  exchange  in  his  pocket,  and  the  naked  New  Zealander, 
whose  property  is  a  club,  a  spear,  a  mat,  and  an  undivided 
twentieth  of  a  shed  to  sleep  under.  But  compare  the  health 
of  the  two  men,  and  you  shall  see  that  his  aboriginal  strength 


1 


rTrmtnm!\>«^<.»f^iiLS:iMv^&,»!t»HSM,3S^^^^S^US^^^-. 


f  a  whole  life's 

yon  have  only 
I  each  can  do 
man  yet  knows 
i  it.     Where  is 

Where  is  ihe 
Washington,  or 
.  The  Scipion- 
)orrow.  If  any 
in  the  original 

who  else  than 
le  made  by  the 

thee,  and  thou 
rhere  is  at  this 
and  as  that  of 
gyptians,  or  the 
lese.  Not  pos- 
thousand-cloven 
hat  these  patri- 
pitch  of  voice  : 

nature.  Dwell 
y  life,  obey  thy 
lin. 

abroad,  so  does 
an  the  improve- 

i  one  side  as  it 
)arent.   like   the 

changes :  it  is 
t  is  rich,   it    is 

For  everything 
es  new  arts  and 

well-clad,  read- 
a  pencil,  and  a 
New  Zealander, 
1  an  undivided 
pare  the  health 
)riginal  strength 


RALPH   WALDO  EMERSON 


20I 


the  white  man  has  lost.  If  the  traveller  tell  us  truly,  strike  the 
savage  with  a  broadaxe,  anu  in  a  day  or  two  the  flesh  shall  unite 
and  heal  as  if  you  struck  the  blow  into  soft  pitch,  and  the  same 
blow  shall  send  the  white  to  his  grave. 

The  civilized  man  has  built  a  coach,  but  has  lost  the  use  of  his 
feet.  He  is  supported  on  crutches,  but  loses  so  much  support  of 
muscle.  He  has  got  a  fine  Geneva  watch,  but  he  has  lost  the 
skill  to  tell  the  hour  by  the  sun,  A  Greenwich  nautical  almanac 
he  has,  and  so  being  sure  of  the  information  when  he  wants  it,  the 
man  in  the. street  does  not  know  a  star  in  the  sky.  The  solstice 
he  does  not  observe  ;  the  equinox  he  knows  as  little ;  and  the 
whole  bright  calendar  of  the  year  is  without  a  dial  in  his  mind. 
His  note-books  ir.ipair  his  memory  ;  his  libraries  overload  his 
wit;  the  insurance  oflfice  increases  the  number  of  accidents;  and 
it  may  be  a  question  whether  machinery  does  not  encumber; 
whether  we  have  not  lost  by  refinement  some  energy,  by  a  Chris- 
tianity entrenched  in  establishments  and  forms,  some  vigor  of 
wild  virtue.  For  every  stoic  was  a  stoic;  but  in  Christendom 
where  is  the  Christian? 

There  is  no  more  deviation  in  the  moral  standard  than  in  the 
standard  of  height  or  bulk.  No  greater  men  are  now  than  ever 
were.  A  singular  equality  may  be  observed  between  the. great 
men  of  the  first  and  of  the  last  ages ;  nor  can  all  the  science,  art, 
religion  and  philosophy  of  the  nineteenth  century  avail  to  educate 
greater  men  than  Plutarch's  heroes,  three  or  four  and  twenty  cen- 
turies ago.  Not  in  time  is  the  race  progressive.  Phocion,  Soc- 
rates, Anaxagoras,  Diogenes,  are  great  men,  but  they  leave  no 
class.  He  who  is  really  of  their  class  will  not  be  called  by  their 
name,  but  be  wholly  his  own  man,  and  in  his  turn  the  founder  of 
a  sect.  The  arts  and  inventions  of  each  period  are  only  its  cos- 
tume, and  do  not  invigotate  men.  The  harm  of  the  improved 
machinery  may  compensate  its  good.  Hudson  and  Behring 
accomplished  so  much  in  their  fishing-boats,  as  to  astonish  Parry 
and  Franklin,  whose  equipment  exhausted  the  resources  of  science 
and  art.  Galileo,  with  an  opera-glass,  discovered  a  more  splendid 
series  of  facts  than  any  one  since.  Columbus  found  the  New 
World  in  an  undecked  boat.  It  is  curious  to  see  the  periodical 
disuse  and  perishing  of  means  and  machinery  which  were  intro- 


•wnmnmrt^ 


^ . 'Mt«ftaMHMlMMiMM«WN«i 


202 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


duced  with  loud  laudation,  a  few  years  or  centuries  before.  The 
great  genius  returns  to  essential  man  \Ve  reckoned  the  improve- 
ments of  the  art  of  war  among  the  triumphs  of  science,  and  yet 
Napoleon  con<|uercd  luirope  by  the  Bivouac,  which  consisted  of 
falling  back  on  naked  valor,  and  disencumbering  it  of  all  aids. 
The  Emperor  held  it  imi)ossible  to  make  a  perfect  army,  says 
Las  Casas,  "  without  abolishing  our  arms,  magazines,  commissaries, 
and  carriages,  until  in  imitation  of  the  Roman  custom,  the  soldier 
should  receive  his  supply  of  corn,  grind  it  in  his  hand-mill,  and 
bake  his  bread  himself." 

Society  is  a  wave.  The  wave  moves  onward,  but  the  water  of 
which  it  is  composed,  does  not.  The  same  particle  does  not  rise 
from  the  valley  to  the  ridge.  Its  unity  is  only  phenomenal.  The 
persons  who  make  up  a  nation  to-day,  next  year  die,  and  their 
experience  with  them. 

And  so  the  reliance  on  Property,  including  the  reliance  on 
governments  which  protect  it,  is  the  want  of  self  reliance.  Men 
have  looked  away  from  themselves  and  at  things  so  long,  that  they 
have  come  to  esteem  what  they  call  the  soul's  progress,  namely, 
the  religious,  learned,  and  civil  institutions,  as  guards  of  property, 
and  they  deprecate  assaults  on  these,  because  they  feel  them  to  be 
assaults  on  property.  They  measure  their  esteem  of  each  oth^r, 
by  what  each  has,  and  not  by  what  each  is.  But  a  cultivated  man 
becomes  ashamed  of  his  property,  ashamed  of  what  he  has,  out  of 
new  respect  for  his  being.  Especially  he  hates  what  he  has,  if  he 
see  that  it  is  accidental,  — came  to  him  by  inheritance,  or  gift,  or 
crime  ;  then  he  feels  that  it  is  not  having  :  it  does  not  belong  to  him, 
has  no  root  in  him,  and  merely  lies  there,  because  no  revolution  or 
no  robber  takes  it  away.  But  that  which  a  man  is,  does  always  by 
necessity  acquire,  and  what  the  man  acquires  is  permanent  and 
living  property,  which  does  not  wait  the  beck  of  rulers,  or  mobs, 
or  revolutions,  or  fire,  or  storm,  or  bankruptcies,  but  perpetually 
renews  itself  wherever  the  man  is  put.  "  Thy  lot  or  portion  of 
life,"  said  the  Caliph  Ali,  "  is  seeking  after  thee ;  therefore  be  at 
rest  from  seeking  after  it."  Our  dependence  on  these  foreign 
goods  leads  us  to  our  slavish  respect  for  numbers.  The  political 
parties  meet  in  numerous  conventions  ;  the  greater  the  concourse, 
and  with  each  new  uproar  of  announcement,  The  delegation  from 


SiT<4sc#«!ftsr«t«»m<rf>i--'>».<^~J»U<*u^-*»«AS»^^^ 


before.  The 
1  the  improve- 
ience,  ami  yet 
li  consisted  of 
it  of  all  aids, 
ct  army,  says 
commissaries, 
im,  the  soldier 
hand-mill,  and 

the  water  of 

does  not  rise 

omenal.    The 

die,  and  their 

c  reliance  on 
eliance.  Men 
long,  that  they 
)gress,  namely, 
Is  of  property, 
eel  them  to  be 
of  each  oth'"'-, 
cultivated  man 
he  has,  out  of 
,t  he  has,  if  he 
nee,  or  gift,  or 
belong  to  him, 
o  revolution  or 
does  always  by 
)ermanent  and 
jlers,  or  mobs, 
)ut  perpetually 
or  portion  of 
therefore  be  at 
these  foreign 
The  political 
the  concourse, 
ielegation  from 


RALPH   WALDO  EMERSON 


203 


Essex  !  The  Democrats  from  New  Hampsliiro  !  The  Wliigs  of 
Maine  !  the  young  patriot  feels  himself  stronger  than  I)cfi)rc  by  a 
new  thousand  of  eyes  and  arms.  In  like  manner  the  reformers 
summon  conventions,  and  vote  and  resolve  in  multitude.  Hut  not 
so,  O  friends  !  will  the  Clod  design  to  enter  and  inhabit  you,  but 
by  a  methoil  precisely  the  reverse.  It  is  only  as  a  man  puts  off 
from  himself  all  external  support,  and  stands  alone,  that  I  see  him 
to  be  strong  and  to  prevail.  He  is  weaker  i)y  every  recruit  to  his 
banner.  Is  not  a  man  better  than  a  town  ?  Ask  notliing  of  men, 
and  in  the  endless  mutation,  thou  only  firm  colimin  must  presently 
appear  the  upholder  of  al!  tliat  surrounds  thee.  He  wlio  knows 
that  power  is  in  the  soul,  that  he  i«  weak  only  because  he  has 
looked  for  good  out  of  him  and  elsewhere,  and  so  perceiving, 
throws  himself  unhesitatingly  on  his  thought,  instantly  rights  him- 
self, stands  in  the  erect  position,  commands  his  limbs,  works  mir- 
acles ;  just  as  a  man  who  stands  on  his  feet  is  stronger  than  a  man 
who  stands  on  his  head. 

So  use  all  that  is  called  I'ortune.  Most  men  gamble  with  her, 
and  gain  all,  and  lose  all,  as  her  wheel  rolls.  lUit  do  thou  leave 
as  unlawful  these  winnings,  and  deal  with  Cause  and  I^ffect,  the 
chancellors  of  Clod.  In  the  Will  work  and  acquire,  and  thou  hast 
chained  the  wheel  of  Chance,  and  shalt  always  <lrag  her  after 
thee.  A  political  victory,  a  rise  of  rents,  the  recovery  of  your 
sick,  or  the  return  of  your  absent  friend,  or  some  other  quite 
exlcrnal  event,  raises  your  si)irits,  and  you  think  good  days  are 
preparing  for  you.  Do  not  believe  it.  It  can  never  be  so. 
Nothing  can  bring  you  peace  but  yourself.  Nothing  can  bring 
you  peace  but  the  triumph  of  princi])les. 

[From  Essays,  First  Series,  1841,  "  Self- Reliance."  The  text  is  that  of  the 
first  edition.] 

EXPERIENCE 

Life  will  be  imaged,  but  cannot  be  divided  nor  doubled.  Any 
invasion  of  its  unity  would  be  chaos.  The  soul  is  not  twin-born, 
but  the  only  begotten,  and  though  revealing  itself  as  child  in  time, 
child  in  appearance,  is  of  a  fatal  and  universal  power,  admitting 
no  co-life.     Every  day,  every  act,  betrays  the  ill-toncealed  deity. 


MM* 


, 


i 

'I: 


304 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


Wo  believe  in  ourselves  as  we  do  not  believe  in  others.     We  per- 
mit all  things  to  ourselves,  and  that  whi(  h  we  rail  sin  in  others,  is 
experiment  for  us.     It  is  an  instance  of  our  faith  in  ourselves,  that 
men  never  sj  cak  of  crime  as  lightly  as  they  think  :  or,  every  man 
thinks  a  latitude  safe  for  himself,  which  is  nowise  to  he  indulged 
to  ani)ther.     'I'hc  act  looks  very  differently  on  the  inside,  and  on 
the  outside  ;  in  its  (piality,  and  in  its  conseciuences.     Murder  in 
the  murderer  is  no  such  ruinous  thought  as  poets  and  vomancers 
will  have  it  ;  it  does  not  unsettle  him,  or  fright  him   from  his 
ordinary  notice  of  trifles  ;  it  is  an  act  quite  easy  to  be  contem- 
plated, but  in  its  sequel,  it  turns  out  to  be  a  horrible  jangle  and 
confounding  of  all  relations.     Kspecially  the  crimes  that  spring 
from  love,  seem  right  and  fair  from  the  actor's  point  of  view,  but, 
when  acted,  are  found  destructive  of  society.     No  man  at  last 
believes  that  he  can  be  lost,  nor  that  the  crime  in  him  is  as  black 
as  in  the  felon.     Hecause  the  intellect  qualifies  in  our  own  case 
the   moral  judgments.     For  there  is  no  crime  to  the   intellect. 
That  is  antinomian  or  hypernomian,  and  judges  law  as  well  as 
fact.     "  It  is  worse  than  a  crime,  it  is  a  blimder,"  said  Napoleon, 
speaking  the  langiiage  of  the  intellect.     To  it,  the  world  is  a  prob- 
lem in  mathematics  or  the  science  of  quantity,  and  it  leaves  out 
praise  and  blame,  aii<l  all  weak  emotions.     All  stealing  is  com- 
parative.    If  you  come  to  absolutes,  jiray  who  does  not  steal? 
Saints  are  sad,  because  they  behold  sin,  (even  when  they  si)ecu- 
late,)  from  the  point  of  view  of  the  conscience,  and  not  of  the 
intellect  ;  a  confusion  of  thought.     Sin  seen  from  the  thought  is  a 
dimintition  or  /ess :  seen  from  the  conscience  or  will,  it  is  pravity 
or  />aii.     The  intellect  names  it  shade,  absence  of  light,  and  no 
essence.     The  conscience  must  feel  it  as  essence,  essential  evil. 
That  it  is  not :  it  has  an  objective  existence,  but  no  subjective. 

Thus  inevitably  does  the  universe  wear  our  color,  and  every  ob- 
ject fall  successively  into  the  subject  itself.  The  subject  exists, 
the  subject  enlarges  ;  all  things  sooner  or  later  fall  into  place.  As 
I  am,  so  I  see ;  use  what  language  we  will,  we  can  never  see  any- 
thing but  what  we  are;  Hermes,  Cadmus,  Columbus,  Newton, 
Buonaparte,  are  the  mind's  ministers.  Instead  of  feeling  a  pov- 
erty when  we  encounter  a  great  man,  let  us  treat  the  newcomer 
like  a  travelling  geologist,  who  passes  through  our  estate,  and 


*iikteijSi:j.J.*4.**-i-t.i^; 


..;ii-:-L  -,VAli*i^VlC*.V-»*!4-«.*-'*teWW«"f*«fl*'-" 


'"3^^^al)^^%' 


KAI.I'Il  WAI.DO  EMI'.NSON 


205 


rs.     \Vc  per- 

in  others,  is 
iirsclvt's,  that 
jr,  «'\  cry  man 

be  iiuhilgeil 
iside,  and  on 
Murder  in 
id  romancers 
lim  from  his 
»  be  contcm- 
le  jangle  and 
s  that  spring 

of  view,  but, 
»  man  at  last 
in  is  as  black 
our  own  case 
the  intellect, 
iw  as  well  as 
lid  Napoleon, 
jrld  is  a  prob- 

it  leaves  out 
■aling  is  com- 
ics not  steal? 
n  they  sjiecu- 
nd  not  of  the 
le  thought  is  a 
ill,  it  is  pravity 

light,  and  no 

essential  evil, 
subjective. 

and  every  ob- 
subjfict  exists, 
nto  place.  As 
never  see  any- 
nbus,  Newton, 

feeling  a  pov- 
the  newcomer 
ur  estate,  and 


, 


shows  us  goixl  slate,  or  limestone,  or  anthracite,  in  our  brush  pas- 
ture. The  partial  action  of  each  strong  mind  in  one  direc  tion,  is  a 
telescope  for  the  objects  on  which  it  is  pointcil.  lUit  every  other 
part  of  knowledge  is  to  be  pushed  to  the  same  extravagance,  ere 
the  soul  attains  her  due  sphericity.  Do  you  see  that  kitten  chas- 
ing so  prettily  her  own  tail?  If  you  could  look  with  her  eyes,  you 
might  see  her  surrounded  with  hundreds  of  figures  performing 
complex  tlramas,  with  tragic  and  comic  issues,  long  conversations, 
many  characters,  many  ups  and  downs  of  fate,  —  and  meantime  it 
is  only  puss  and  her  tail.  How  long  before  our  mas(picrade  will 
end  its  noise  of  tamborines,  laughter,  and  shouting,  ami  we  shall 
find  it  was  a  solitary  performance?  —  .A  subject  and  an  object, 
—  it  takes  so  much  to  make  the  galvanic  circuit  complete,  but 
magnitude  adds  nothing.  What  imports  it  whether  it  is  Kepler 
anil  the  sphere  ;  Columbus  and  America;  a  reailer  and  his  book  ; 
or  puss  with  her  tail  ? 

It  is  true  that  all  the  muses  and  love  and  religion  hate  these  de- 
velopments, and  will  find  a  way  to  punish  the  chemist,  who  pub- 
lishes in  the  parlor  the  secrets  of  the  laboratory.  And  we  cannot 
say  too  little  of  our  constitutional  necessity  of  seeing  things  under 
private  aspects,  or  saturated  with  our  humors.  And  yet  is  the  Ciod 
the  native  of  these  bleak  rocks.  That  need  makes  in  morals  the 
capital  virtue  of  self-trust.  We  must  hold  hard  to  this  poverty, 
however  scandalous,  and  by  more  vigorous  self-recoveries,  after  the 
sallies  of  action,  jiossess  our  axis  more  firmly.  The  life  of  trulli  is 
cold,  and  so  far  mournful;  but  it  is  not  the  slave  of  tears,  contri- 
tions, and  perturbations.  It  does  not  attempt  another's  work,  nor 
adopt  another's  facts.  It  is  a  main  lesson  of  wisdom  to  know  your 
own  from  another's.  I  have  learned  tb;;t  I  cannot  dispose  of 
other  peojile's  facts ;  but  I  jKissess  such  x  key  to  my  own,  as  per- 
suades me  against  all  their  denials,  that  they  also  have  a  key  to 
theirs.  \  sympathetic  person  is  placed  in  the  dilemma  of  a 
swimmer  among  drowning  men,  who  all  catch  at  him,  and  if  he 
give  so  much  as  a  leg  or  a  finger,  they  will  drown  him.  They 
wish  to  be  saved  from  the  mischief  of  their  vices,  bi.t  not  from  their 
vices.  Ch-irity  would  be  wasted  on  this  poor  waiting  on  the  symp- 
toms. A  wise  and  hardy  physician  will  say.  Come  out  of  that^  as 
the  first  condition  of  advice. 


r 


306 


AMHNIC.IN  !  KOSI-: 


\ 


In  this  niir  talkiiiK  Aim-ric  a,  we  are  ruinod  by  our  good- nature 
ami  lisleniii(4  on  all  sides.  I  his  couipliance  takes  away  the  power 
of  beiny  grc.itly  ii^ieliii.  A  man  should  not  be  able  to  h)ok  other 
than  directly  and  Ibrthriglil.  A  preoccupied  attention  is  the  only 
answer  to  the  importunate  frivolity  of  other  people  :  an  attention 
and  to  an  aim  wiiich  makes  their  wants  frivolous.  This  is  a  divine 
answer,  and  leaves  no  appeal,  and  no  hanl  thoughts.  In  i-'lax- 
man's  drawing  of  the  Kumenides  of  i^'lschyhis,  Orestes  supplicates 
Apollo,  whilst  the  Furies  sleep  on  the  threshold.  The  fai  e  of  the 
god  expresses  a  shade  of  regret  and  compassion,  but  calm  with 
the  conviction  of  the  irreconcilableness  of  the  two  spheres.  He  is 
born  into  other  politics,  into  the  eternal  and  beautiful.  The  man 
at  his  feet  asks  for  his  interest  in  turmoils  of  the  earth,  into  which 
his  nature  cannot  enter.  And  the  Kumenides  there  lying  express 
l)ictorially  this  disparity.  The  god  is  surcharged  with  his  divine 
destiny. 

lih.sion,  Temperament,  Succession,  Surface,  Surprise,  Reality, 
Subjeitiveness,  —  these  are  threads  on  the  loom  of  time,  these  are 
the  lords  of  life.  I  dare  not  assume  to  give  their  order,  but  1 
name  them  as  I  find  them  in  my  way.  I  know  better  than  to  claim 
any  completeness  for  my  i)icture.  I  am  a  fragment,  anil  this  is  a 
fragment  of  me.  I  can  very  confidently  announce  one  or  another 
law,  which  throws  itself  into  relief  and  form,  but  I  am  too  young 
yet  by  some  ages  to  compile  a  code.  I  gossip  for  my  hour  con- 
cerning the  eternal  politics.  I  have  seen  many  fair  pictures  not  in 
vain.  A  wonderful  time  I  have  lived  in.  I  am  not  the  novice  I 
was  fourteen,  nor  yet  seven  years  ago.  Let  who  will  ask,  where  is 
the  fruit?  I  find  a  private  fruit  suflicient.  This  is  a  fruit,  —  that 
I  should  not  ask  for  a  rash  effect  from  meditations,  counsels,  and 
the  hiving  of  truths.  I  should  feel  it  pitiful  to  demand  a  result  on 
this  town  and  county,  an  overt  effect  on  the  instant  month  and 
year.  The  effect  is  deej)  and  secular  as  the  cause.  It  works  on 
periods  in  which  mortal  lifetime  is  lost.  All  I  know  is  reception ; 
I  am  and  I  have  :  but  I  do  not  get,  and  when  I  have  fancied  I  had 
gotten  anything,  I  found  I  had  not.  I  worship  with  wonder  the 
great  Fortune.  My  reception  has  been  so  large,  that  i  am  not 
annoyed  by  receiving  this  or  that  superabundantly.  I  say  to  the 
Genius,  if  he  will  pardon  the  proverb,  In /or  a  mill,  in  for  a  million. 


-;'«H.W..cft-.-^  -..-^^ii'i^-A 


rl^:o^*^v.*ii*!«^i'A^ii»ft»»?i^?i4a^««P.t«*^^  ■ 


RALPH   WALDO  EMHKSOy 


207 


ts. 


good  nature 

ly  till"  |H)wcr 

to  look  otiicr 

n  is  the  only 

an  attention 

is  is  a  divine 

III   ['lax- 

s  siipplicatcs 

e  fa(  e  of  the 

Hit  calm  with 

heres.     lie  is 

il.      The  man 

til,  into  which 

lying  express 

ith  his  divine 

>rise,  Reality, 

iine,  these  are 

order,  but  I 

r  than  to  claim 

and  this  is  a 
me  or  another 

am  too  young 

iny  hour  con- 
pictures  not  in 
t  the  novice  I 
I  ask,  where  is 
a  fruit,  —  that 

counsels,  and 

nd  a  result  on 

nt  month  and 

It  works  on 

V  is  reception; 

fancied  I  had 

h  wonder  the 

hat  i  am  not 

I  say  to  the 

i/or  a  mi/lion. 


When  I  receive  ;i  new  gift,  I  do  not  macerate  my  body  to  make 
the  account  sipiare,  for,  if  I  should  die,  I  could  not  make  the 
account  s(|uire.  The  benefit  overran  the  merit  the  first  day, 
and  has  overrun  the  merit  ever  since.  The  merit  itself,  so  tailed, 
I  reckon  part  of  the  receiving. 

Also,  that  hankering  after  an  overt  or  jiMcticiI  effect  sccins  to 
me  an  apostasy.  In  good  earnest,  I  am  willing  to  spare  this  most 
unnecessary  deal  of  doing.  Life  wears  to  me  a  visionary  face. 
Hardest,  roughest  .ution  is  visionary  also.  It  is  but  a  choice  be- 
tween soft  and  turbulent  dreams.  People  disparage  knowing  and  the 
intellectual  life,  and  uri;e  doing.  I  am  very  content  with  knowing, 
if  only  I  could  know.  That  is  an  august  entertainment,  and  would 
suffice  me  a  great  while.  To  know  a  little,  would  be  worth  the 
expense  of  this  world.  I  hear  always  the  law  of  .Adrastia,  "  that 
every  soul  which  had  ac([uired  any  truth,  should  be  safe  from  harm 
until  another  period." 

I  know  that  tlie  world  T  converse  with  in  the  city  and  in  the 
farms  is  not  the  world  1  think.  I  observe  that  dilTerence,  and 
shall  observe  it.  One  day,  I  shall  know  the  value  and  law  of  this 
discrepance.  Hut  I  hav."  not  found  that  mucii  was  gained  by 
manipular  altem|)ts  to  realize  the  woild  of  thought.  Many  eager 
persons  successfully  make  an  experiment  in  this  way,  and  make 
themselves  ridiculous.  They  accpiire  democratic  manners,  they 
foam  at  the  i.iouth,  they  hate  and  deny.  Worse,  I  observe,  that 
in  the  history  of  mankind,  there  is  never  a  solitary  example  of 
success,  —  taking  their  own  tests  of  success.  I  say  this  polemically, 
or  in  reply  to  the  inquiry,  why  not  realize  your  world?  But  far 
be  from  me  the  dc.^;>air  which  prejudg^-s  the  law  by  a  paltry  empiri- 
cism, —  since  there  ntver  was  a  right  endeavor,  but  it  succeeded. 
Patience  and  patience,  we  shall  win  at  the  last.  We  must  be  very 
suspicious  of  the  deceptions  of  the  element  of  time.  It  takes  a 
good  deal  of  time  to  eat  or  to  sleep,  or  to  earn  a  hundred  dollars, 
and  a  very  little  time  to -entertain  a  hope  and  an  insight  which 
becomes  the  light  of  our  life.  We  dress  our  garden,  eat  our 
dinners,  discuss  the  household  with  our  wives,  and  these  things 
make  no  impression,  are  forgotten  next  week  ;  but  in  the  solitude 
to  which  every  man  is  always  returning,  he  has  a  sanity  and  reve- 
lations, which  in  his  passage  into  new  worlds  he  will  carry  with 


208 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


him.  Never  mind  the  ridicule,  never  mind  the  defeat :  up  again, 
ok'  heart !  —  it  seems  to  say,  —  there  is  victory  yet  for  all  justice  ; 
and  the  true  romance  which  the  world  exists  to  realize  will  be  the 
transformation  of  genius  into  practical  power. 

[From  Essays,  Second  Scries,  1844,  "  Experience."    The  text  is  that  of  the 
first  edition.] 


NATURE 

The  rounded  world  is  fair  to  see. 

Nine  limes  folded  in  mystery : 

Though  baffled  seers  cannot  impart 

The  secret  of  its  laboring  heart, 

Throb  thine  with  Nature's  throbbing  breast. 

And  all  is  clear  from  east  to  west. 

Spirit  that  lurks  each  form  within 

Beckons  to  spirit  of  its  kin  ; 

Self-kindled  every  atom  glows, 

And  hints  the  future  which  it  owes. 

There  are  days  which  occur  in  this  climate,  at  almost  any  sea- 
son of  the  year,  wherein  the  world  reaches  its  perfection,  when 
the  air,  the  heavenly  bodies,  and  the  earth  make  a  harmony,  as  if 
Nature  would  indulge  her  offspring ;  when,  in  these  bleak  upper 
sides  of  the  planet,  nothing  is  to  desire  that  we  have  heard  of  the 
happiest  latitudes,  and  we  bask  in  the  shining  hours  of  Florida 
and  Cuba ;  when  everything  that  has  life  gives  signs  of  satisfaction, 
and  the  cattle  that  lie  on  the  ground  seem  tc  have  great  and  tran- 
quil thoughts.  These  halcyons  may  be  looked  for  with  a  little 
more  assurance  in  that  pure  October  weather,  which  we  distinguish 
by  the  name  of  the  Indian  Suinmer.  The  day,  immeasurably  long, 
sleeps  over  the  broad  hills  and  warm  wide  fields.  To  have  lived 
through  all  its  sunny  hours  seems  longevity  enough.  The  solitary 
places  do  not  seem  quite  lonely.  At  the  gates  of  the  forest,  the 
surprised  man  of  the  world  is  forced  to  leave  his  city  estimates  of 
great  and  small,  wise  and  foclish.  The  knapsack  of  custom  falls 
off  his  back  with  the  first  st^,p  he  makes  into  these  precincts 
Here  is  sanctity  which  shames  our  religions,  and  reality  which 
discredits  our  heroes.     Here  we  find  nature  to  be  the  circum- 


r^s.^^s^sevaasmses-- 


'  -I^Si^^^&W^Mrvl 


at :  up  again, 
or  all  justice  ; 
ze  will  be  the 

:xt  is  that  of  the 


most  any  sea- 
•fection,  when 
larmony,  as  if 
;  bleak  upper 

heard  of  the 
irs  of  Florida 
)f  satisfaction, 
reat  and  tran- 

with  a  little 
.ve  distinguish 
asurably  long, 
ro  have  lived 

The  solitary 
he  forest,  the 
y  estimates  of 
f  custom  falls 
:se  precincts, 
reality  which 
;  the  circum- 


RALPH  WA:.D0  EMERSON 


209 


stance  which  dwarfs  every  other  circumstance,  and  judges  like  a 
god  all  men  that  come  to  her.     We  have  crept  out  of  our  close 
and  crowded  houses  into  the  night  and  morning,  and  we  see  what 
majestic  beauties  daily  wrap  us  in  their  bosom.     How  willingly 
we  would  escape  the  barriers  which  render  them  comparatively 
impotent,  escape  ihe  sophistication  and  second  thought,  and  suffer 
nature  to  entrance  us.     The  tempered  light  of  the  woods  is  like  a 
perpetual  morning,  and  is  stimulating  and  heroic.     The  anciently 
reported  spells  of  these  places  creep  on  us.     The  stems  of  pines, 
hemlocks,  and  oaks  almost  gleam  like  iron  on  the  excited  eye. 
The  incommunicable  trees  begin  to  persuade  us  to  live  with  them, 
and  quit  our  life  of  solemn  trifles.     Here  no  history,  or  church, 
or  state  is  interpolated  on  the  divine  sky  and  the  immortal  year. 
How  easily  we  might  walk  onward  into  the  opening  landscape, 
absorbed  by  new  pictures,  and  by  thoughts  fast  succeeding  each 
other,  until  by  degrees  the  recollection  of  home  was  crowded  out 
of  the  mind,  all  memory  obliterated  by  the  tyranny  of  the  present, 
and  we  were  led  in  triumph  by  nature. 

These  enchantments  are  medicinal,  they  sober  and  heal  us. 
These  are  plain  pleasures,  kindly  and  native  to  us.     We  come  to 
our  own,  and  make  friends  with  matter,  which  the  ambitious  chat- 
ter of  the  schools  would  persuade  us  to  despise.     We  never  can 
part  with  it ;  the  mind  loves  its  old  home  :  as  water  to  our  thirst, 
so  is  the  rock,  the  ground,  to  our  eyes,  and  hands,  and  feet.     It 
is  firm  water  :  it  is  cold  flame  :  what  health,  what  affinity  !     Ever 
an  old  friend,  ever  like  a  dear  friend  and  brother,  when  we  chat 
affectedly  with  strangers,  comes  in  this  honest  face,  and  takes  a 
grave  liberty  with  us,  and  shames  us  out  of  our  nonsense.     Cities 
give  not  the  human  senses  room  enough.     We  go  out  daily  and 
nightly  to  feed  the  eves  on  the  horizon,  and  require  so  much  scope, 
just  as  we  need  water  for  our  bath.     There  are  all  degrees  of  nat- 
ural influence,  from  these  quarantine  powers  of  nature,  up  to  her 
dearest  and  gravest  ministrations  to  the  imagination  and  the  soul. 
There  is  the  bucket  of  cold  water  from  the  spring,  the  wora-fire 
to  which  the  chilled  traveller  rushes  for  safety,  —  and  the-.-  is  the 
sublime  moral  of  autumn  and  of  noon.     We  nestle  in  nature,  and 
draw  our  living  as  parasites  from  her  roots  and  grains,  and  we 
receive  glances  from  the  heavenly  bodies,  which  call  us  to  solitude, 


Moi? 


2IO 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


and  foretell  the  remotest  future.  The  blue  zenith  is  the  point  in 
which  romance  and  reality  meet.  I  think,  if  we  should  be  rapt 
away  into  all  that  we  dream  of  heaven,  and  should  converse  with 
Gabriel  and  Uriel,  the  upper  sky  would  be  all  that  would  remain 
of  our  furniture. 

It  seems  as  if  the  day  was  not  wholly  profane,  in  which  we  have 
given  heed  to  some  natural  object,  'i'he  fall  of  snowflakes  in  a 
still  air,  preserving  to  each  crystal  its  perfect  form  ;  the  blowing 
of  sleet  over  a  wide  sheet  of  water,  and  over  plains ;  the  waving 
rye-field  ;  the  mimic  waving  of  acres  of  houstonia,  whose  innu- 
merable florets  whiten  and  ripple  before  the  eye ;  the  reflections 
of  trees  and  flowers  in  glassy  lakes  ;  the  musical  steaming  odorous 
south  wind,  which  converts  all  trees  to  windharps ;  the  crackling 
and  spurting  of  hemlock  in  the  flames ;  or  of  pine  logs,  which 
yield  glory  to  the  walls  and  faces  in  the  sittingroom,  —  these  are 
the  music  and  pictures  of  the  most  mcient  religion.  My  house 
stands  in  low  land,  with  limited  outlook,  and  on  the  skirt  of  the 
village.  JJut  I  go  with  my  friend  to  the  shore  of  our  little  river, 
and  with  one  stroke  of  the  paddle,  I  leave  the  village  politics  and 
personalities,  yes,  and  the  world  of  villages  and  personalities 
behind,  and  pass  into  a  delicate  realm  of  sunset  and  moonlight, 
too  bright  almost  for  spotted  man  to  enter  without  noviciate  and 
probation.  We  penetrate  bodily  this  incredible  beauty  :  we  dip 
our  hands  in  this  painted  element :  our  eyes  are  bathed  in  these 
lights  and  forms.  A  holiday,  a  villeggiatura,  a  royal  revel,  the 
proudest,  most  heart-rejoicing  festival  that  valor  and  beauty, 
power  and  taste,  ever  decked  and  enjoyed,  establishes  itself  on 
the  instant.  These  sunset  clouds,  these  delicately  emerging  stars, 
with  their  private  and  ineffable  glances,  signify  it  and  proffer  it. 
I  am  taught  the  poorness  of  our  invention,  the  ugliness  of  towns 
and  palaces.  Art  and  luxury  have  early  learned  '.bit  they  must 
work  as  enhancement  and  sequel  to  this  origin  '  ■  e.wty.  I  am 
overinstructed  for  my  return.  Henceforth  1  W.m  i;e  hard  to 
please.  I  cannot  go  back  to  toys.  I  am  grow;)  <  Apiinsive  and 
sophisticated.  I  can  no  longer  live  without  elegance ;  but  a 
countryman  shall  be  my  master  of  revels.  He  who  knows  the 
most,  he  who  knows  what  sweets  and  virtues  are  in  the  ground, 
the  waters,  the  plants,  the  heavens,  and  how  to  come  at  these  en- 


r7lii  jCm!v^'^^'.a 


•JgJ'itiJ:- 


'-mfs^jst-mx^gmmmmmimf' 


RALPH   WALDO  EMERSON 


211 


is  the  point  in 

liould  be  rapt 

converse  witli 

would  remain 

wiiicli  we  have 
lowflakes  in  a 
;  the  blowing 
s;  the  waving 
.,  whose  innu- 
the  reflections 
miing  odorous 
the  crackling 
le  logs,  which 
n,  —  these  are 
n.  My  house 
le  skirt  of  the 
ur  little  river, 
;e  politics  and 
I  personalities 
nd  moonlight, 
noviciate  and 
lauty :  we  dip 
.thed  in  these 
yal  revel,  the 

and  beauty, 
ishes  itself  on 
merging  stars, 
aid  proffer  it. 
ness  of  towns 
1  It  they  must 
eatity.     I  am 

be  hard  to 
Apiinsive  and 
j.'ince;  but  a 
10  knows  the 
1  the  ground, 
e  at  these  en- 


chantments, is  the  rich  and  royal  man.    Only  as  far  as  the  masters 
of  the  world  have  called  in  nature  to  their  aid,  can  they  reach  the 
height  of  magnificence.     This  is  the  meaning  of  their  hanging- 
gardens,  villas,  garden-houses,  islands,  parks,  and  preserves,  to 
back  their  faulty  personality  with  these  strong  accessories.     I  do 
not  wonder  that  the  landed  interest  should  be  invincible  in  the 
state  with  these  dangerous  auxiliaries.     These  bribe  and  invite ; 
not  kings,  not  palaces,  not  men,  not  women,  but  these  tender  and 
poetic  stars,  eloquent  of  secret  promises.     We   heard  wl>at  the 
rich  man  said,  we  knew  of  his  villa,  his  grove,  his  wine,  and  his 
company,  but  the  provocation  and  point  of  the  invitation  came 
out  of  these  beguiling  stars.    In  their  soft  glances,  I  see  what  men 
strove  to  realize  in  some  Versailles,  or  Paphos,  or  Ctesiphon. 
Indeed,  it  is  the  magical  lights  of  the  horizon,  and  the  blue  sky 
for  the  background,  which  save  all  our  works  of  art,  which  were 
otherwise  bawbles.     When  the  rich  tax  the  poor  with  servility 
and  obsequiousness,  they  should  consider  the  effect  of  men  re- 
puted to  be  the  possessors  of  nature,  on  imaginative  minds.     Ah  ! 
if  the  rich  were  rich  as  the  poor  fancy  riches  !     A  boy  hears  a 
military  band  play  on  the  field  at  night,  and  he  has  kings  and 
queens,  and  famous  chivalry  palpably  before  him.     He  hears  the 
echoes  of  a  horn  in  a  hill  country,  in  the  Notch  Mountains,  for 
example,  which  converts  the  mountains  into  an  ^olian  harp,  and 
this  supernatural  tiralim  restores  to  him  the  Dorian  mythology, 
Apollo,  Diana,  and  all  divine  hunters  and  huntresses.     Can  a 
musical  note  be  so  lofty,  so  haughtily  beautiful !     To  the  poor 
young  poet,  thus  fabulous  is  his  picture  of  society ;  he  is  loyal ; 
he  respects  the  rich  ;  they  are  rich  for  the  sake  of  his  imagination  ; 
how  poor  his  fancy  would  be,  if  they  were  not  rich  !     That  they 
have  some  high-fenced  grove,  which  they  call  a  park  !  that  they 
live  in  larger  and  better-garnished  saloons  than  he  has  visited, 
and  go  in  coaches,  keeping  only  the  society  of  the  elegant,  to 
watering-places,  and  to  distant  cities,  are  the  groundwork  from 
which  he  has  delineated  estates  of  romance,  compared  with  which 
their  actual  possessions  are  shanties  and  paddocks.     The  muse 
herself  betrays  her  son,  and  enhances  the  gifts  of  wealth  and  well- 
born beauty,  by  a  radiation  out  of  the  air,  and  clouds,  and  forests 
that  skirt  the  road,  — a  certain  haughty  favor,  as  if  from  patrician 


,aiij»:iMii<!i>!' 


212 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


genii  to  patricians,  a  kind  of  aristocracy  in  nature,  a  prince  of  the 
power  of  the  air. 

The  moral  sensibility  which  makes  Edens  and  Tempes  so  easily, 
may  not  be  always  found,  but  the  material  landscape  is  never  far 
off.  We  can  find  these  enchantments  without  visiting  the  Como 
Lake,  or  the  Madeira  Islands.  \Vc  exaggerate  the  praises  of  local 
scenery.  In  every  landscape,  the  point  of  astonishment  is  the 
meeting  of  the  sky  and  the  earth,  and  that  is  seen  from  the  first 
hillock  as  well  as  from  the  top  of  the  AUeghanies.  The  stars  at 
night  stoop  down  over  the  brownest,  homeliest  common,  with  all 
the  spiritual  magnificence  which  they  shed  on  the  Campagna,  or 
on  the  marble  deserts  of  Egypt.  The  uprolled  clouds  and  the 
colors  of  morning  and  evening,  will  transfigure  maples  and  alders. 
The  difference  between  landscape  and  landscape  is  small,  but 
there  is  great  difference  in  the  beholders.  There  is  nothing  so 
wonderful  in  any  particular  landscape,  as  the  necessity  of  being 
beautiful  under  which  every  landt  ape  lies.  Nature  cannot  be 
surprised  in  undress.     Beauty  breaks  in  everywhere. 

[From  Essays,  Second  Series,  "  Nature,"  1844. 
edition.] 


The  text  is  that  of  the  first 


'*:HS:!'i,i'\ 


,i^}si"^,s»'^mi\^f'.&i^^^m9i£ky,i0mx?^ii??s!^ 


.  prince  of  the 

npes  so  easily, 
e  is  never  far 
ng  the  Como 
)raises  of  local 
shment  is  the 
from  the  first 
The  stars  at 
imon,  with  all 
Campagna,  or 
louds  and  the 
es  and  alders, 
is  small,  but 
is  nothing  so 
ssity  of  being 
ire  cannot  be 

s  that  of  the  first 


NATHANIEL   HAWTHORNE 

• 

[Nathaniel  Hawthorne  was  born  in  Salem,  Mass.,  July  4,  1804,  and  died  in 
riymoutli,  N.IL,  May  19,  1864.  Hawthorne  came  of  an  old  Puritan  family, 
long  resident  in  Salem.  His  great-great-grandfather  was  a  judge  in  the  witch- 
craft trials,  and  his  grandfather  a  Revolutionary  officer.  His  father  was  a 
sea-captain.  In  1821,  Hawthorne  graduated  at  Bowdoin  College,  where  Long- 
fellow was  his  classmate.  From  1821  to  1839  he  remained  in  Salem,  devoting 
himself  to  reading  and  composition,  and  living  for  the  most  part  in  great 
seclusion.  In  1836-8  he  was  engaged  in  editorial  work;  in  1839-41  he  was 
weigher  an<l  ganger  at  the  Boston  custom  house,  under  George  Bancroft,  who 
was  then  collector  of  the  port;  in  1841-2  he  spent  a  year  at  Brook  Farnu 
He  married  in  1842,  and  lived  at  Concord,  Mass.,  until  1846.  From  1846  to 
1849  he  was  surveyor  at  the  Salem  custom  house,  and  from  1850  to  1853  lived 
successively  in  Lenox,  West  Newton,  and  Concord,  Mass.  In  1853  he  was 
appointed  consul  at  Liverpool,  by  his  old  college  friend,  President  Peirce. 
He  held  office  for  four  years,  and  passed  three  years  more  in  foreign  travel; 
the  remainder  of  his  life  he  spent  at  Concord. 

Some  of  Hawthorne's  best  stories  appeared  in  various  periodicals  be- 
tween 1828  and  1838.  His  first  published  work  was  Twice-Told  Tales,  first 
volume,  1837;  sectmd  volume,  1 842.  The  names  ai.  dates  of  his  ulher  im- 
portant works  are  as  follows:  Mosses  from  an  Old  Afanse  (1846),  The 
Scarlet  Letter  (1850),  The  Ihuse  of  the  Seven  Cables  (1851),  A  Wonder 
Book  (1851),  The  Blithedale  Romance  (1852),  TangUwood  Tales  (1853),  The 
Marble  Faun  (i860),  Our  Old  Home  (1863).  The  following  were  published 
after  his  death  :  Passages  from  the  American  Note  Books  (1868),  Passages  from 
the  English  Note  Books  (1870),  Passages  from  the  French  and  Italian  Note 
Books  (1871),  Septimius  Felton  (1872),  The  Dolliver  Romance  (1876),  Doctor 
Griiushawe' s  Secret  (1883). 

Perhaps  it  is  not  extrdvagant  to  describe  Hawthorne  as  the 
greatest  American  man  of  letters  of  his  day  and  generation.  He 
may  have  been  surpassed  by  some  of  his  contemporaries  in  single 
pieces  of  literature ;  he  may  have  been  inferior  to  some  of  them 
in  intellectual  power  and  in  versatility  and  originality  of  genius ; 
he  may  even,  though  this  is  more  doubtful,  have  been  rivalled  by 
some  of  them  in  his  mastery  of  style.  Nevertheless,  he  is  the 
greatest  distinctively  American  literary  artist  of  his  day,  —  the  one 

ai3 


I 


■  "•.Mi«iJ'mmm!'»i*ti 


imimWiiiiii  mmimttm 


m 


214 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


writer  in  America  who  loved  life  and  looked  out  upon  life  with  an 
unflngging  desire  to  create  beauty  in  literature  and  with  the  ability 
to  make  that  desire  efTective.  Kmerson,  besides  being  r.  writer, 
was  a  preacher,  a  lecturer,  a  pliilosoi)her.  Lowell  wa:-:  a  teacher 
and  a  diplomat.  Thoreau  was  too  much  of  a  seer  to  be  a  typical 
man  of  letters,  —  too  self-involved,  too  careless  of  a  public.  Poe 
was  thoroughly  a  man  of  letters,  but  hardly  an  American  one ;  his 
work  seems  exotic. 

Hawthorne's  work,  on  the  other  hand,  bears  e^■erywhere  im- 
pressed on  it  traces  of  its  American  origin,  of  its  New  England 
origin.  Richard  Holt  Hutton  has  called  Hawthorne  "  the  Ghost 
of  New  England."  The  aptness  of  the  name  lies  in  its  suggestion 
both  of  Hawthorne's  loyalty  to  New  England  life  and  of  his  pathetic 
remoteness  from  that  life  ;  his  practical  ineffectualness  in  the 
midst  of  it.  HTvthorne  haunts  New  England.  He  is  not  at 
home  there,  nor  indeed  anywhere  on  this  earth-ball,  and  yet  he 
cannot  escape.  Concentrated  in  his  nature,  he  has  all  the  old 
Puritan  prejudices,  and  throughout  his  artistic  dreaming,  he  not 
only  makes  use  of  New  England  material,  but  he  uses  this  material 
in  harmony  with  Puritan  feelings  and  beliefs.  Each  of  his  romances 
turns  out,  on  analysis,  to  be  the  artistic  expression  and  illustration 
of  some  deeply  rooted  moral  or  spiritual  prejudice  that  has  been 
inherited  from  Puritan  ancestors  and  that  has  completely  subdued 
to  its  purposes,  for  the  time  being,  Hawthorne's  imagination. 

Hawthorne's  methods  in  his  story-writing  are  substantially  the 
same  whether  the  story  be  short  or  long.  He  works  from  the  con- 
ception of  some  symbolic  image  or  character  or  situation  out 
toward  the  world  of  concrete  fact.  He  cares  for  and  is  concerned 
to  portray,  not  primarily  fact,  but  the  world  on  the  other  side  of 
fact,  for  the  revelation  of  which  fact  must  be  duly  refined  and 
made  transparent.  His  stories  owe  their  origin  not  to  the  desire 
to  catch  the  surfiice  play  of  expression  on  some  portion  of  every- 
day life,  but  to  a  wish  to  illustrate  some  half-mystical  truth  about 
human  destiny,  usually  about  man's  moral  or  spiritual  nature.  In 
the  service  of  this  wish,  Hawthorne's  imagination  quests  hither 
and  yon  through  the  regions  of  visible  and  verifiable  experience, 
and  fashions  gradually  a  mimic  world  of  men  and  women  and 
nature,  all  expressive  of  a  single  controlling  purpose. 


*-A:,.i^ft*-J:^«j,i4A.' 


,^f_,^^i^M^^^^.^m^m^^^'m*^^mm^^«i^^^s^^^^^s^- 


NA  THAN  I  EL  11  A  W  TllORNE 


215 


)n  life  with  an 
irith  the  abihty 
being  r.  writer, 
wa:-;  a  teacher 
[o  be  a  typical 
I  public.  Poe 
rican  one ;  his 

i-erywhere  im- 
New  England 
le  "  the  Ghost 
I  its  suggestion 

of  his  pathetic 
ualness  in  the 

He  is  not  at 
ill,  and  yet  he 
las  all  the  old 
;aming,  he  not 
:s  this  material 
jf  his  romances 
ind  illustration 

that  has  been 
iletely  subdued 
\gination. 
ibstantiaily  the 
5  from  the  con- 
•  situation  out 
id  is  concerned 
e  other  side  of 
ily  refined  and 
)t  to  the  desire 
)rtion  of  every- 
;al  truth  about 
Lial  nature.  In 
1  quests  hither 
3le  experience, 
id  women  and 


Correspondent  with  these  aims  and  metlioils  is  Hawthorne's 
characterization.  Typical  characters  in  their  large  outlines  shape 
themselves  in  his  imagination;  these  characters  are  not  closely 
realized,  or  wrought  out  into  the  minute  complication  of  habit  and 
quality  and  motive  that  exists  in  the  world  of  indiviilualized  fact 
and  that  our  modern  novelists  try  to  achieve  in  emulation  of  nature. 
Hawthorne's  characters  have  each  only  a  few  prevailing  interests 
and  aims,  which  serve  to  guide  them  through  a  remote  world  of 
tempered  light  and  shade  and  to  keep  them  ever  intent  on  some 
symbolic  purpose.  Their  persuasiveness  comes  not  from  their 
having  the  complexity  of  life,  but  from  their  appeal  to  our  sym- 
pathy and  imagination.  We  meet  them  more  than  half-way, 
because  they  stir  into  play  some  of  the  most  radical  and  permanent 
instincts  of  human  nature  and  seem  sincerely  concerned  with  the 
great  primal  interests  and  facts  of  life. 

In  order  that  these  typical  characters  may  capture  our  sympathy 
and  belief,  Hawthorne  has  to  keep  them  from  any  rude  competi- 
tion with  actual  life.  Hence  come  the  calculated  vagueness  of  his 
treatment  and  his  delicate  search  for  atmosphere.  His  charac- 
ters nearly  always  issue  from  a  nebulous  past ;  like  Priscilla  they 
"fall  out  of  the  clouds"  :  "a  slight  mist  of  uncertainty  "  floats 
about  them  and  keeps  them  "  from  taking  a  very  decided  place 
among  creatures  of  Hesh  and  blood."  Their  motives  and  even 
their  acts  are  often  left  uncertain ;  in  place  of  clear  accounts  of 
these  matters,  strange  rumors  are  recited,  that  have  run  from  lip 
to  lip  J  the  superstitious  whisperings  of  credulous  onlookers  are 
reported  and  keep  the  reader  continually  in  a  calculated  uncer- 
tainty. Acts  and  motives  are  sheltered  from  the  impertinent 
queries  of  the  verifying  scientific  spirit.  The  characters,  too,  are 
stamped  as  irretrievably  out  of  the  common  by  tricks  of  nianner 
or  physical  traits  that  tantalize  us  with  symbolic  suggestiveness  ; 
Priscilla  seems  "  listening  to  a  distant  voice  "  ;  Dimmesdale's  hand 
clutches  convulsively  at  his  heart;  Donatello  has  dubious  ears. 
These  tricks  and  features  tease  the  imagination  and  keep  it  alert ; 
more  is  meant  than  meets  the  eye.  The  characters  awe  us  by 
their  mysterious,  only  half-divined  significance  ;  symbols  they  are 
and  symbols  they  pursue.  They  are  "  goblins  of  flesh  and  blood," 
and  delicately  avoid  the  taint  of  conformity  to  literal  fact.     Even 


■■  Mittmiiiij'j  w»*w«t 


2l6 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


in  speech,  they  hold  themselves  nicely  aloof  from  daily  idiom. 
'I'he  workmen  speak  the  language  of  books,  and  the  children,  a 
simi)liried,  hut  exiiuisitely  literary  English. 

Hawthorne's  world,  too,  is  a  symbolic  workl,  full  cf  echoes  of 
spiritual  life,  full  of  fine  and  unexpected  corresi)ondences  with 
abstract  moral  truth,  full  of  conscious  Deity.  All  things  work 
together  for  the  revelation  of  spiritual  beauty  and  its  attending 
moods.  Symbols  abound  ;  icarlet  letters  blaze  in  the  heavens ; 
crimson  roses  bloom  by  j)rison  doors.  The  general  background 
of  each  romance  has  a  s|)ecial  aptness  for  rendering  more  deli- 
cately conspicuous  the  spiritual  meaning  of  the  action.  In  the 
Marble  Faun,  which  is  everywhere  studious  of  the  deepest  and 
most  permanent  of  human  problems,  —  the  mystery  of  evil,  —  and 
which  devotes  itself  to  illustrating  this  problem  in  symbolic  form, 
Rome,  the  city  that  more  than  any  other  contains  richly  accumu- 
lated memories  of  the  human  race,  forms  the  setting  for  the  action, 
and  embraces  it  in  a  range  of  thought  and  feeling  that  enhances 
the  typical  and  universal  quality  of  the  incidents  and  characters. 
The  Scar/et  Letter,  the  Romance  of  Expiation,  finds  its  appropri- 
ate setting  in  the  midst  of  the  obdurately  gray  life  of  Puritanism 
that  will  reveal  its  inner  flame  only  when  sin  or  superstition  gives 
the  provocation.  An  intense  racial  demand  for  righteousness 
heightens  artistically  and  renders  doubly  appreciable  the  quality  of 
Hester's  sin  and  tragic  suffering.  Even  the  Blithedale  Romaitce 
has  its  own  atmosphere.  The  actors  are  "  solitary  sentinels,  whose 
station  was  on  the  outposts  of  the  advance  guard  of  human  pro- 
gression .  .  .  whose  present  bivouac  was  considerably  further  into 
the  v.'aste  of  cli.ios  than  any  mortal  army  of  crusaders  had  ever 
marched  before." 

Yet,  notwithstanding  all  this  vagueness  and  mystery,  and  this 
confessedly  elaborate  dreaming  in  the  interests  of  morals  and 
beauty,  Hawthorne's  world  is  a  very  habitable  world.  He  is  the 
most  human  of  ghost-raisers,  and  life  as  he  portrays  it,  though 
haunted  and  prescient,  has  after  all  geniality  and  warmth.  This 
comes  from  the  fact  that  his  romances,  in  obedience  to  the  rule  he 
himself  has  prescribed,  are  loyal  to  "  the  truth  of  the  human  heart." 
Though  he  is  a  dreamer,  his  dreams  remain  faithful  to  what  is  best 
in  human  nature.     He  is  a  true  appreciator  of  the  griefs  and  the 


^sgSl^<,S^mMiSki^ii^<iS^m^S/^Sl^'^^. 


mxiA 


NATltANfF.l.  HAWrilOKSR 


%\f 


m  daily  idiom, 
the  children,  a 

ill  cf  echoes  of 
pondences  with 
Ml  things  work 
id  its  attending 
n  the  heavens ; 
ral  background 
ring  more  deli- 
action.  In  the 
he  deepest  and 
•^  of  evil,  —  and 
symbolic  form, 
I  richly  accumu- 
ig  for  the  action, 
;  that  enhances 
and  characters, 
ids  its  appropri- 
e  of  Puritanism 
iperstition  gives 
>r  righteousness 
le  the  quality  of 
hedale  Romance 
sentinels,  whose 
of  human  pro- 
ably  further  into 
aders  had  ever 

ystery,  and  this 
of  morals  and 
rid.  He  is  the 
rtrays  it,  though 
1  warmth.  This 
:e  to  the  rule  he 
e  human  heart." 
1  to  what  is  best 
;  griefs  and  the 


joys,  the  struggles  and  the  passions  that  make  up  the  drama  of 
actual  life.  He  portrays  with  loving  reverence  the  frailty  of  chil- 
dren, the  fragile  grace  of  young  girls  ;  the  mischances  of  the  van- 
quished in  the  struggle  of  life;  the  wretchedness  of  those  who  like 
Hester  and  Zenobia  have  been  ill-fated  in  love  ;  the  pathetic  short- 
comings of  unhappily  tempered  natures  like  Clifford  and  Miriam. 
He  is  swift  to  honor  both  in  men  and  women  spiritual  intensity  and 
consecration  and  fortitude.  The  more  practical,  every-day  virtues 
of  prutlence  and  justice,  truth  and  persistent  courage,  he  also 
exalts,  though  these  are  more  apt  to  be  taken  for  granted  and 
presented  casually,  as  in  his  conventional  hero,  Kcnyon.  Ardent 
disregard  of  tradition  and  custom  in  the  pursuit  of  lofty  concep- 
tions of  virtue  and  progress,  he  symi)athetically  portrays  in  Hol- 
grave,  in  Miles  Coverdale,  and  in  the  Artist  of  the  Beautiful. 
Worldly  cleverness  and  success,  he  satirizes  incidentally  in  many 
short  stories  and  above  all  in  the  character  of  Judge  Pyncheon. 
Hawthorne  is  a  dreamer  who  finds  the  great  need  of  the  world  to 
be  "  sleep,"  —  rest  from  its  "  morbid  activity,  ...  so  that  the 
race  might  in  due  time  awake  as  an  infant  out  of  dewy  slumber 
and  be  restored  to  the  simple  perception  of  what  is  right,  and  the 
single-hearted  desire  to  achieve  it."  Yet  despite  his  distrust  of 
conventionality  and  custom,  his  dreaming  habit  of  mind,  and  his 
delight  in  the  other-worldly,  he  is  in  his  moral  appreciations  of 
conduct  essentially  normal  and  loves  and  honors  the  virtues  and 
achievements  that  all  good  men  and  women  believe  in  and  vibrate 
responsively  to.  And  the  truth  and  habitableness  of  his  world, 
despite  its  modulated  atmosphere  and  its  half-goblin  populace, 
come  from  its  essential  loyalty  to  the  demands  and  the  awards  of 
the  normal  human  heart. 

Hawthorne's  world  differs  here  completely  from  the  world  into 
which  the  modern  decadents  in<luct  us,  —  from  Poe's  world,  too. 
Ghastliness,  mystery,  horror,  are  never  with  Hawthorne's  ends  in 
themselves ;  they  never  usurp,  but  are  made  to  minister  to  the 
normal  interests  of  well-balanced  life.  Moreover,  the  artificiality 
of  Hawthorne's  characters  and  the  directed  sequences  of  the  action 
seem  in  a  way  more  justified  than  the  capricious  arabesques  of 
weird  incident  and  morbid  motive  that  decadents  delight  to  invent, 
for  Hawthorne  never  plays  fast  and  loose  with  essential  truth  or 


tm^mmitimmmMtm 


2l8 


AMF.KICAX  PROSE 


■    i 


■ 


l)aUcrs  will)  Ininiaii  nature,  and  lluoiij^li  his  most  extravagant 
make-believe  is  felt  the  deep  guiiling  stress  of  a  virile  love  of 
life. 

I'erhaps  the  severest  rriticism  that  can  be  passed  npon  Haw- 
thorne is  to  the  effect  that  he  is  too  responsible  in  all  that  he 
writes  and  that  his  wish  to  teach  is  irritatingly  evident.  He  is 
not  content  to  take  life  simply  and  frankly,  he  is  over-anxious, 
and  is  careful  about  many  spiritual  things.  He  has  inherited 
from  his  I'uritan  ancestors  a  hypertrophied  conscience  which 
tricks  him  into  perpetual  unrest.  He  must  always  be  studying 
some  moral  problem,  and  he  finds  the  jjroblem  the  more  interest- 
ing the  more  pathological  it  is.  His  favorite  characters  are  nearly 
all  of  them  a  l)it  morbid,  -nervously  touched;  their  world  is 
drained  of  the  splendor  and  freedom  and  irresponsible  joy  of 
nature  and  is  discolored  with  something  of  the  withering  grayness 
of  Puritanism.  When  Hawthorne  makes  a  resolute  attempt  at 
carnality,  as  he  now  and  then  does  in  the  BlilheJaU  Romance, 
we  feel  that  he  is  doing  himself  violence  and  sacrificing  what  is 
quintessential  in  his  nature.  Nor  is  he  merely  over-anxious  and 
over-didactic  ;  he  is  at  times  obvious  and  almost  naive,  particu- 
larly in  his  talk  about  art  and  in  his  occasional  analysis  of  motive. 
This  becomes  specially  noticeable  if  he  be  read  just  after  subtle 
and  sophisticated  mo(lern  writers,  masters  of  finesse  in  etiquette 
and  art.  Many  of  the  discussions  in  the  Marble  Faun  upon 
Cluido  and  the  Venus  de  Medici  must  nowadays  be  discreetly 
waived.  Many  of  the  descriptions  of  anticpiities  and  of  scenery 
have  an  unapologetic  effusiveness  that  suggests  the  garrulity  of  the 
American  who  is  for  the  first  time  "  doing  "  Europe,  latter-day 
guide-books  borrow  largely  from  these  passages,  —  a  somewhat 
dubious  honor.  There  is  little  intellectual  subtlety  in  Hawthorne, 
little  unalloyed  study  of  pure  artistic  effect,  little  of  that  undis- 
tracted  preoccupation  with  sensation  and  its  accompanying  moods 
and  its  suggested  trains  of  imagery  to  which  modern  decadent 
art  has  often  surrendered  itself. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  richness  and  depth  of  Hawthorne's 
nature  is  attested  by  the  himior  that  is  unmist^.kably  present  in 
many  of  his  stories  and  that,  in  the  form  of  u  tenderly  tolerant 
sense  of  the  incongruities  of  life,  is  never  far  away  even  from  the 


ri 


'  -  ■'5S^SSS*fes5tfciitS«ai.«  Siw«;»*s»i*Mi*' 


.^ki^^^^M^ 


NATHANIEL   HAWTHORNE 


219 


ist  extravagant 
virile  love  of 

cd  upon  Haw- 
in  all  that  he 
vident.     He  is 
s  over-anxious, 
has   inherited 
isciencc   which 
ys  be  studying 
more  interest- 
ctcrs  are  nearly 
their  world  is 
)onsible  joy  of 
hering  grayness 
Lite  attempt  at 
'dale  Romance, 
rificing  what  is 
■er-anxious  and 
naive,  particu- 
lysis  of  motive. 
lust  after  subtle 
ise  in  etiquette 
Me  Faun  upon 
s  be  discreetly 
and  of  scenery 
garrulity  of  the 
ie.     latter-day 
—  a  somewhat 
in  Hawthorne, 
of  that  undis- 
ipanying  moods 
odern  decadent 

Df  Hawthorne's 
ably  present  in 
snderly  tolerant 
'  even  from  the 


most  sincerely  pathetic  episodes.  Ills  tone  is  always  intensely 
human,  never  that  of  the  cynical  observer  of  men's  foibles  or  of 
the  dilettante  elalK)rator  of  aitistic  effects.  He  loves  life  and 
believes  in  life  ;  he  believes  in  men  and  women  ;  and  his  abound- 
ing temlerness  and  human  sympathy  are  not  really  weakened  or 
obstured  by  the  aloofnc;;s  he  maintains  in  his  art  from  the  crude 
world  of  every-day  experience.  Kven  his  most  fantastic  i>ieces  — 
such  whimsical  fantasies  as  Feathtitop  —  are  full  of  love  for  life  in 
its  elements,  and  are  often  captivatingly  genial  in  mood  and  in 
tone.  Through  this  largeness  and  genuineness  of  nature,  he  is  for 
the  most  part  kept  even  in  his  passages  of  greatest  unreality  from 
sensationalism  or  cheapness  of  effect.  The  melodramatic  is  always 
false,  and  Hawthorne  is  persistently  sincere  and  true.  Now  and 
then  a  symbol  or  a  single  detail,  —  the  Scarlet  Letter,  the  Kaun's 
ears,  Ethan  Brand's  hollow  laugh,  —  may  be  unworthily  insisted 
upon.  liut  the  important  incidents  and  the  main  situations  of  a 
story  carry  conviction  ;  the  reader  h.is  no  sense  of  being  tricked  ; 
he  feels  himself  present  at  essential  crises  in  the  development  of 
human  passion,  and  he  watches  with  never  a  misgiving,  human 
nature  revealing  itself  in  its  elements  and  claiming  his  pity  or 
hatred  or  love. 

Hawthorne's  prose  style  is  as  sincere  and  as  free  from  meretri- 
ciousness  as  the  moods  and  effects  it  conveys.  It  disdains  or 
never  thinks  of  smartness  and  eschews  epigram.  It  has  none  of  the 
finical  prettiness  and  unusualness  of  phrase  that  modern  writers 
affect.  It  is  distinctly  an  old-fashioned  style.  It  has  a  trace  of  the 
reserve  and  self-conscious  literary  manner  of  the  pre-journalistic 
period.  It  has  an  occasional  fondness  for  literary  phrasing,  —  for 
words  that  have  the  odor  of  libraries  about  them  and  suggest  folios 
and  paper  yellow  with  age.  It  is  dilatory  or  at  least  never  hurried 
or  eager.  It  uses  long,  lingering  sentences.  It  leads  often  to  smiles, 
never  or  rarely  to  laughter.  It  is  suffused  with  feeling.  It  holds 
imagery  and  thought  in  solution  and  eddies  around  its  subject. 
It  is  a  synthetic,  emotional,  and  imaginative  style  ;  not  an  analytic, 
intellectual,  and  witty  style.  It  has  unsurpassable  wiioleness  of 
texture  and  weaves  with  no  faltering  of  purpose  or  blurring  of  lines 
that  fabric  of  a  dream-world  in  which  each  of  Hawthorne's  stories 
imprisons  our  imaginations.     It  is  the  style  of  a  great  imaginative 


IM I  WNW1i>*»l»Wi*»fcWI 


adil 


230 


AMEHICAN  I'ROSE 


artist  wlm  ronimiincs  with  hiiusfiron  the  visions  of  his  heart,  not 
tlie  style  of  an  alert  observer  of  the  happenings  of  daily  life  ;  it  is 
the  fitting  and  perfect  niediiiin  for  the  expression  of  those  ex(|ui- 
sitely  directed  and  humani/.ed  dreams  of  symbolic  beauty  and  truth 
which,  as  has  been  noted  in  detail,  are  Hawthorne's  characteristic 
productions  as  a  writer  of  romance. 

Lkwis  Kdwarus  C'lAira 


•m^siS^^iimuSiMii 


:..'-iK&iiim.- 


f  his  licart,  not 
daily  life  ;  it  is 
)f  tlinsf  fX(|ui- 
jaiily  and  Inilh 
s  characteristic 


NA  I'll.  U\U:I.   IIA  W  niON.VK 


THK    PKOCKSSKIN   OK    IJFE 


331 


Rur,  come  !  The  sun  is  hastening  westward,  while  the  march 
ot  human  life,  that  never  paiiseil  before,  is  delayed  by  oui  attempt 
to  rearrange  its  order.  It  is  desirable  to  find  some  compre- 
hensive princijile,  that  shall  ren<ler  our  (ask  easier  by  bringing 
thousands  into  the  ranks  where  hitherto  we  have  brought  one. 
Therefore  let  the  trumpet,  if  possible,  split  its  brazen  throat  with 
a  louder  note  than  ever,  and  the  herakl  summon  all  mortals  who, 
from  whatever  cause,  have  lost,  or  never  found,  their  proper 
places  in  the  world. 

Obedient  to  this  call,  a  great  multitude  come  together,  most  of 
them  with  listless  gait,  betokening  weariness  of  soul,  yet  with  a 
gleam  of  satisfaction  in  their  faces,  at  a  prosjject  of  at  length 
reaching  those  positions  which,  hitherto,  they  have  vainly  sought. 
Hut  here  will  be  another  disa|)pointmcnt;  for  we  can  attempt  no 
more  than  merely  to  associate,  in  one  fraternity,  all  who  are 
afflicted  with  the  same  vag>ie  troid)lc.  Some  great  mistake  iii  life 
is  the  chief  condition  of  admittance  into  this  class.  Here  are 
members  of  the  li:iine<l  professions,  whom  Providence  endowed 
with  special  gifts  i  the  plough,  the  forge,  and  the  wheelbarrow,  or 
for  the  routine  of  unintellectual  business.  We  will  assign  to  them, 
as  partners  in  the  march,  those  lowly  laborers  and  handicraftsmen, 
who  have  pined,  as  with  a  dying  thirst,  after  the  unattainable 
fountains  of  knowledge.  The  latter  have  lost  less  than  their  com- 
panions ;  yet  more,  because  they  deem  it  infinite.  Perchance 
the  two  species  of  unfortunates  may  comfort  one  another.  Here 
are  Quakers  with  the  instinct  of  battle  in  them  ;  and  men  of  war 
who  should  have  worn  the  broad  brim.  Authors  shall  be  ranked 
here,  whom  some  freak  of  Nature,  making  game  of  her  poor 
children,  had  imbued  with  the  confidence  of  genius,  and  strong 
desire  of  fame,  but  has  favored  with  no  corresponding  power ;  and 
others,  whose  lofty  gifts  were  unaccompanied  with  the  faculty  of 
expression,  or  any  of  that  earthly  machinery,  by  which  ethereal 
endowments  must  be  manifested  to  mankind.  All  these,  there- 
fore, are  melancholy  laughing-stocks.  Next,  here  are  honest  and 
well-intentioned  persons,  who  by  a  want  of  tact  —  by  inaccurate 


! 


t'fii 


222 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


perceptiuiis  —  by  a  distorting  imagination  — have  been  kept  con- 
tinually at  cross  puri)oses  with  the  world,  and  bewildered  upon 
the  i);ith  of  life.  Let  us  see  if  they  can  confine  themselves  within 
the  line  of  our  [irocession.  In  this  class,  likewise,  we  must  assign 
places  to  those  who  have  encountered  that  worst  of  ill  success,  a 
higher  fortune  than  their  abilities  could  vindicate  ;  writers,  actors, 
p  liuters,  the  pets  of  a  day,  but  whose  laurels  wither  unrenewed 
amid  their  l^oary  hair ;  politicians,  whom  some  malicious  contin- 
gency of  affairs  has  thrust  into  conspicuous  station,  where,  while 
the  workl  stands  gazing  at  them,  the  dreary  consciousness  of  im- 
becility makes  them  curse  their  birth  hour.  To  such  men,  we 
give  for  a  comi)anion  him  whose  rare  talents,  which  perhaps 
require  a  Revolution  for  their  exercise,  are  buried  in  the  tomb  of 
sluggish  circumstances. 

Not  far  from  these,  we  must  find  room  for  '  ne  whose  success 
has  been  of  the  wrong  kind  ;  the  man  who  sIk  aid  have  lingered 
in  the  cloisters  of  a  university,  digging  new  treasures  out  of  the 
Herculancum  of  anticpie  lore,  diffusing  depth  and  accuracy  of 
literature  throughout  his  country,  and  thus  making  for  himself  a 
great  and  quiet  fame.  But  the  outward  tendencies  around  him 
have  proved  too  powerful  for  his  inward  nature,  and  have  drawn 
him  into  the  arena  of  political  tumult,  there  to  contend  at  disad- 
vantage, whether  front  to  front,  or  side  by  side,  "'t!.  the  brawny 
giants  of  actual  life.  He  Ijecomes,  it  may  be,  a  name  for  brawling 
parties  to  bandy  to  and  fro,  a  legislator  of  the  Union  ;  a  governor 
of  his  native  State;  an  ambassador  to  the  courts  of  kings  or 
queens ;  and  the  world  may  deem  him  a  man  of  happy  stars. 
But  not  so  the  wise ;  and  not  so  himself,  when  he  looks  through 
his  experience,  and  sighs  to  miss  that  fitness,  the  one  invaluable 
touch  which  makes  all  things  true  and  real.  So  much  achieved, 
yet  how  abortive  is  his  life  !  \Vhom  shall  we  choose  for  his  com- 
panion? Some  weak  framed  blacksmith,  perhaps,  v/hose  delicacy 
of  muscle  might  have  suited  a  tailor's  shopboard  better  than  the 

anvil. 

Shall  we  l)id  the  trumpet  sound  again?  It  is  hardly  worth  the 
while.  There  remain  a  few  idle  men  of  fortune,  tavern  and  grog- 
shop loungers,  lazzaror.i.  old  liachelors,  decaying  maidens,  and 
people  of  crooked  intellect  or  temper,  all  of  whom  may  find  their 


i^*5&tifi->:^;»*..^.i'4.>«*«fi6i»fe^si#8i«tJ^^ 


NATHANIEL   HAWTHORNE 


223 


:en  kept  con- 
,'ildered  upon 
iiselves  within 
e  must  assign 
ill  success,  a 
,vriters,  actors, 
er  unrenewed 
licious  contin- 
1,  where,  while 
)usness  of  im- 
such  men,  we 
vliich  perhaps 
1  the  tomb  of 

whose  success 
have  Hngered 
res  out  of  the 
d  accuracy  of 
;  for  himself  a 
js  around  him 
id  have  drawn 
tend  at  disad- 
!t!.  the  brawny 
lie  for  brawling 
)n ;  a  governor 
ts  of  kings  or 
)f  happy  stars, 
looks  through 
one  invaluable 
nuch  achieved, 
)C  for  his  com- 
\7hose  delicacy 
better  than  the 

ardly  worth  the 

ivcrn  and  grog- 

;   maidens,  and 

may  find  their 


like,  or  some  tolerable  approach  to  it,  in  the  plentiful  diversity  of 
our  latter  class.  There  too,  as  his  ultimate  destiny,  must  we  rank 
the  dreamer,  who,  all  his  life  long,  has  cherished  the  idea  that  he 
was  peculiarly  apt  for  something,  but  never  could  determine  what 
it  was ;  and  there  the  most  unfortunate  of  men,  whose  purpose  it 
has  been  to  enjoy  life's  pleasures,  but  to  avoid  a  manful  struggle 
with  its  toil  and  sorrow.  The  remainder,  if  any,  may  connect 
themselves  with  whatever  rank  of  the  procession  they  shall  find 
best  adapted  to  their  tastes  and  consciences.  The  worst  possible 
fate  would  be  to  remain  behind,  shivering  in  the  solitude  of  time, 
while  all  the  world  is  on  the  move  towards  eternity.  Our  attempt 
to  classify  society  is  now  complete.  The  result  may  be  any  thing 
but  perfect ;  ^  et  better  —  to  give  it  the  very  lowest  praise  —  than 
the  antique  rule  of  the  herald's  office,  or  the  modern  one  of  the 
tax  gatherer,  whereby  the  accidents  and  superficial  attributes,  with 
which  the  real  nature  of  individuals  has  least  to  do,  are  acted  upon 
as  the  deepest  characteristics  of  mankind.  Our  task  is  done  ! 
Now  let  the  grand  procession  move  ! 

Yet  pause  a  while  !  We  had  forgotten  the  Chief  Marshal. 
Hark  !  The  world-wide  swell  of  solemn  music,  with  the  clang 
of  a  mighty  bell  breaking  forth  through  its  regulated  uproar, 
announces  his  approach.  He  comes;  a  severe,  sedate,  immov 
able,  dark  rider,  waving  his  truncheon  of  universal  sway,  as  he 
passes  along  the  lengthened  line,  on  the  pale  horse  of  the  Revela- 
tion. It  is  Death  !  Who  else  could  assume  the  guidance  of  a 
procession  that  comprehends  all  humanity?  And  if  some,  among 
these  many  millions,  should  deem  themselves  classed  amiss,  yet 
let  them  take  to  iheir  hearts  the  comfortable  truth,  that  Death 
levels  us  all  into  one  great  brotherhood,  and  that  another  state  of 
being  will  surely  rectify  the  wrong  of  this.  Then  breathe  thy  wail 
upon  the  earth's  wailing  wind,  thou  band  of  melancholy  music, 
made  up  of  every  sigh  that  the  human  heart,  unsatisfied,  has 
uttered  !  There  is  yet  triumph  in  thy  tones.  And  now  we  move  ! 
Beggars  in  their  rags,  and  Kings  trailing  the  regal  purple  in  the 
dust ;  the  Warrior's  gleaming  helmet ;  the  Priest  in  his  sable  robe  ; 
the  hoary  drandsire,  who  has  run  life's  circle  and  come  back  to 
childhood;  ihe  ruddy  Schoollwy  with  his  golden  curls,  frisking 
along  the  march;   the  Artisan's  stuff  jacket;   the   Noble's  star- 


..•■I 


224 


.tAri-.h'fCA.V  /'A'OSfi 


decorated  coat ;  —  the  whole  presenting  a  motley  spectacle,  yet 
with  a  dusky  grandeur  brooding  over  it.  Onwanl,  onward,  into 
that  dimness  where  the  lights  of  Time,  which  have  blazed  along 
the  procession,  are  dickering  in  their  sockets  !  And  whither  ! 
We  know  not;  and  Death,  hitherto  our  leader,  deserts  us  by  the 
wayside  as  the  tramp  of  our  innumerable  footsteps  echoes  beyond 
his  sphere.  He  knows  not,  more  thai\  we,  our  destined  goal. 
But  God,  who  made  p.s,  knows,  and  will  not  leave  us  on  our  toil- 
some and  doubtful  march,  either  to  wander  in  infinite  uncertainty, 
or  perish  by  the  way  ! 

[From  Mosses  from  ait  Old  Manse,  "The  Procession  of  Life,"  1846.    The 
text  is  that  of  the  revised  edition  of  1854.] 


FEATHERTOP 

"  Dickon,"  cried  Mother  Rigby,  "  a  coal  for  my  pipe  !  " 

The  pipe  was  in  the  o)d  dame's  mouth  when  she  said  these 
words.  She  had  tiirust  il  there  after  filling  it  with  tobacco,  but 
without  stooping  to  light  it  at  the  hearth,  where  indeed  there  was 
no  appearance  of  a  fire  having  been  kindled  that  morning.  F'orth- 
with,  however,  as  soon  as  the  order  was  given,  there  was  an  intense 
red  glow  out  of  the  bowl  of  the  pipe,  and  a  whiff  of  smoke  from 
Mother  Rigby's  lips.  Whence  the  coal  came,  and  how  brought 
thither  by  an  invisible  hand,  I  have  never  been  able  to  dis- 
cover. 

"  Good ! "  quoth  Mother  Rigby,  with  a  nod  of  her  head. 
"  Thank  ye,  Dickon  !  And  now  for  making  this  scarecrow.  Be 
within  call,  Dickon,  in  case  I  need  you  again." 

The  good  woman  had  risen  thus  early,  (for  as  yet  it  was  scarcely 
sunrise,)  in  order  to  set  about  making  a  scarecrow,  which  she  in- 
tended to  put  in  the  middle  of  her  cornpatch.  It  was  now  the 
latter  week  of  May,  and  the  crows  and  blackbirds  had  already  dis- 
covered the  little,,  green,  rolled-up  leaf  of  the  Indian  corn  just 
peeping  out  of  the  soil.  She  was  determiner),  therefore,  to  con- 
trive as  lifelike  a  scarecrow  as  ever  was  seen,  and  to  finish  it  im- 
mediately, from  top  to  toe,  so  that  it  should  begin  its  sentinel's 


'm&D^^^>^^^ili»M^^^^^f^^ttii- 


ipectacle,  yet 
onward,  into 
blazed  along 
ind  whither  ! 
rts  us  by  the 
choes  beyond 
lestined  goal, 
s  on  our  toil- 
e  uncertainty, 

fe,"  1846.    The 


ipe  ! " 

he  said  these 
I  tobacco,  but 
ed  there  was 
ning.  F'orth- 
vas  an  intense 
F  smoke  from 
how  brought 
able  to  dis- 

of  her   head, 
larecrow.     Be 

t  was  scarcely 
ivhich  she  in- 
was  now  the 
d  already  dis- 
lian  corn  just 
efore,  to  con- 
finish  it  im- 
its  sentinel's 


NA  TIlANIEl.   II A  WTIIORNE 


225 


duty  that  very  morning.  Now  Mother  Rigby,  (as  everybody 
must  have  heard,)  was  one  of  the  most  cunning  and  potent  witches 
in  New  England,  and  might,  with  very  little  trouble,  have  made 
a  scarecrow  ugly  enough  to  frighten  the  minister  himself.  But 
on  this  occasion,  as  she  had  awakened  in  an  uncommonly  pleasant 
humor,  and  was  further  dulcified  by  her  pipe  of  tobacco,  she 
resolved  to  proiluce  something  fine,  beautiful,  and  splendid,  rather 
than  I'.ideous  and  horrible. 

"  '  don't  want  to  set  up  a  hobgoblin  in  my  own  cornpatch,  and 
ahnost  at  my  own  doorstep,"  said  Mother  Rigby  to  herself,  puffing 
out  a  whiff  of  smoke  ;  "  I  could  do  it  if  I  pleased,  but  I'm  tired  of 
doing  marvellous  things,  and  so  I'll  keep  within  the  bounds  of 
everyday  business,  just  for  variety's  sake.  Besides,  there  is  no  use 
in  scaring  the  little  children  for  a  mile  roundabout,  though  'tis 
true  I'm  a  witch." 

It  was  settled,  therefore,  in  her  own  mind,  that  the  scarecrow 
should  represent  a  fine  gentleman  of  the  period,  so  fiir  as  the  ma- 
terials at  hand  would  allow.  Perhaps  it  may  be  as  well  to  enumer- 
ate the  chief  of  the  articles  that  went  to  the  composition  of  this 
figure. 

The  most  important  item  of  all,  probably,  although  it  made  so 
little  show,  was  a  certain  broomstick,  on  which  Mother  Rigby  had 
taken  many  an  airy  gallop  at  midnight,  and  which  now  served  the 
scarecrow  by  way  of  a  spinal  column,  or,  as  the  unlearned  phrase 
it,  a  backbone.  One  of  its  arms  was  a  disabled  flail  which  used  to 
be  wielded  by  Goodman  Rigby,  before  his  spouse  worried  him  out 
of  this  troublesome  world  ;  the  other,  if  I  mistake  not,  was  com- 
posed of  the  pudding  stick,  and  a  broken  rung  of  a  chair,  tied 
loosely  together  at  the  elbow.  As  for  its  legs,  the  right  was  a  hoe 
handle,  and  the  left  an  undistinguished  and  miscellaneous  stick 
from  the  woodpile.  Its  lungs,  stomach,  and  other  affairs  of  that 
kind  were  nothing  better  than  a  meal  bag  stuffed  with  straw. 
Thus  we  have  made  out  the  skeleton  and  entire  corporeity  of  the 
scarecrow,  with  the  exception  of  its  head  ;  and  this  was  admirably 
supplied  by  a  somewhat  withered  and  shrivelled  pumpkin,  in 
which  Mother  Rigby  cut  two  holes  for  the  eyes,  and  a  slit  for  the 
mouth,  leaving  a  bluish-colored  knob  in  the  middle  to  pass  for  a 
nose.     It  was  really  quite  a  respectable  face. 


.,--i!!WBHt-Wai  Kji'iilliitf  ■' 


226 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


"  I've  seen  worse  ones  on  human  shoulders,  at  any  rate,"  said 
Mother  Rigby.  "  And  many  a  fine  gentleman  has  a  pumpkin 
head,  as  well  as  my  scarecrow," 

Hut  the  clothes,  in  this  case,  were  to  be  the  making  of  the  man. 
So  the  good  old  woman  took  down  from  a  peg  an  ancient  plum- 
colored  coat  of  London  make,  and  with  relics  of  embroidery  on  its 
seams,  cuffs,  pocket  flaps,  and  button  ho'"s,  but  lanientably  worn 
and  faded,  patched  at  the  elbows,  tattereu  ...  the  skirts,  anil  thread- 
bare all  over.  On  the  left  breast  was  a  round  hole,  whence  either 
a  star  of  nobility  had  been  rent  away,  or  else  the  hot  heart  of  some 
former  wearer  had  scorched  it  through  and  through.  The  neigh- 
bors said  that  this  rich  garment  belonged  to  the  Black  Man's 
wardrobe,  and  that  he  kept  it  at  Mother  Rigby's  cottage  for  the 
convenience  of  slipping  it  on  whenever  he  v;ished  to  make  a  grand 
appearance  at  the  governor's  table.  To  match  the  coat  there  was 
a  velvet  waistcoat  of  very  ample  size  and  formerly  embroidered  with 
foliage  that  had  been  as  brightly  golden  as  the  maple  leaves  in 
October,  but  which  had  now  quite  vanished  out  of  the  substance 
of  the  velvet.  Next  came  a  pair  of  scarlet  breeches,  once  worn 
by  the  French  governor  of  Louisbourg,  and  the  knees  of  which 
had  touched  the  lower  step  of  the  throne  of  Louis  le  Grand.  The 
Frenchman  had  given  these  smallclothes  to  an  Indian  powwow, 
who  had  parted  with  them  to  the  old  witch  for  a  gill  of  strong 
waters,  at  one  of  their  dances  in  the  forest.  Furthermore,  Mother 
Rigby  produced  a  pair  of  silk  stockings  and  put  them  on  the 
figure's  legs,  where  they  showed  as  unsubstantial  as  a  dream,  with 
the  wooden  reality  of  the  two  sticks  making  itself  miserably  ap- 
parent through  the  holes.  lastly,  she  put  her  dead  husband's  wig 
on  the  bare  scalp  of  the  pumpkin,  and  surmounted  the  whole  with 
a  dusty  three-cornered  hat,  in  which  was  stuck  the  longest  tail 
feather  of  a  rooster. 

Then  the  old  dame  stood  the  figure  up  in  a  corner  of  her  cottage 
and  chuckled  to  behold  its  yellow  semblance  of  a  visage,  with  its 
nobby  little  nose  thrust  into  the  air.  It  had  a  strangely  self- 
satisfied  aspect,  and  seemed  to  say,  "  Come  look  at  me  I " 

"  And  yo'i  are  well  worth  looking  at,  that's  a  i'act ! "  quoth 
Mother  Rigby,  in  admiration  at  her  own  handiwork.  "  I've  made 
many  a  puppet  since  I've  been  a  witch ;  but  methinks  this  is  the 


'M^'^-^^i^^^^^^^'-^ 


NA  THANIEL  HA  WTHORNE 


227 


ny  rate,"  said 
IS  a  pumpkin 

g  of  the  man. 
mcient  plum- 
Jioidery  on  its 
nentably  worn 
ts,  antl  tiiread- 
ivhence  either 
heart  of  some 
The  neigh- 

Hlack  Man's 
Jttage  for  the 
make  a  grand 
:oat  there  was 
)roidered  with 
iple  leaves  in 
the  substance 
es,  once  worn 
lees  of  which 
Grand.  The 
iian  powwow, 
gill  of  strong 
more,  Mother 

them  on  the 
a  dream,  with 
miserably  ap- 
husband's  wig 
he  whole  with 
e  longest  tail 

of  her  cottage 
isage,  with  its 
itrangely  self- 
Tie!" 

fact ! "   quoth 

"  I've  made 

iks  this  is  the 


finest  of  them  all.  'Tis  almost  too  good  for  a  scarecrow.  And,  by 
the  by,  I'll  just  fill  a  fresh  pipe  of  tobacco,  and  then  take  him  out 
to  the  cornpatch." 

While  filling  her  pipe,  the  old  woman  continued  to  gaze  with 
almost  motherly  affec  on  at  the  figure  in  the  corner.  To  say  the 
truth,  whether  it  were  chance,  or  skill,  or  downright  witchcraft, 
there  was  something  wonderfully  human  in  this  ridiculous  sliape, 
bedizened  with  its  tattered  finery  ;  and  as  for  the  countenance,  it 
appeared  to  shrivel  its  yellow  surface  into  a  grin  —  a  funny  kind 
of  expression  betwixt  scorn  and  merriment,  as  if  it  understood 
itself  to  be  a  jesl  at  mankind.  The  more  Mother  Rigby  looked 
the  better  she  was  pleased. 

"  Dickon,"  cried  she  sharply,  "  another  coal  for  my  pipe  ! " 

Hardly  had  she  spoken,  than,  just  as  before,  there  was  a  red- 
glowing  coal  on  the  top  of  the  tobacco.  She  drew  in  a  long  whiff 
and  puffed  it  forth  again  into  the  bar  of  morning  sunshine  which 
struggled  through  the  one  dusty  pane  of  her  cottage  window. 
Mother  Rigby  always  liked  to  flavor  her  pipe  with  a  coal  of  fire 
from  the  particular  chimney  corner  whence  this  had  been  brought. 
But  w*-— "  th  t  chimney  corner  n\ig'.it  be,  or  who  brought  the  coal 
from  ii — further  than  that  the  invisible  messenger  seemed  to 
respond  to  the  name  of  Dickon  —  I  cannot  tell. 

"That  puppet  yonder,"  thought  Mother  Rigby,  still  with  her 
eyes  fixed  on  the  scarecrow,  "  is  too  good  a  piece  of  work  to 
stand  all  summer  in  a  cornpatch,  frightening  away  the  crows  and 
blackbirds.  He's  capable  of  better  things.  Why,  I've  danced 
with  a  worse  one,  when  partners  happened  to  be  scarce,  at  our 
witch  meetings  in  the  forest !  What  »■  I  should  let  him  take  his 
chance  among  the  other  men  of  straw  and  empty  fellows  who  go 
bustling  about  the  world  ?  " 

The  old  witch  took  three  or  four  more  \vhiffs  of  her  pipe  and 
smiled. 

"  He'll  meet  plenty  of  his  brethren  at  every  street  comer ! " 
continued  she.  "  Well ;  I  didn't  mean  to  dabble  in  witchcraft 
to-day,  further  than  the  lighting  of  my  pipe ;  but  a  witch  I  am, 
and  a  witch  I'm  likely  to  be,  and  there's  no  use  trying  to  shirk  it. 
I'll  make  a  'nan  of  my  scarecrow,  were  it  only  for  the  joke's 
sake ! " 


AMERICAN  rKOSE 


While  muttering  these  words  Mother  Rigby  took  the  pipe  from 
her  own  mouth  and  thrust  it  into  the  crevice  which  represented 
the  same  feature  in  the  pumpkin  visage  of  the  scarecrow. 

"  I'uff,  darUng,  puff!"  said  she.  "Puff  away,  my  fine  fellow! 
your  life  depends  on  it !  " 

This  was  a  strange  exhortation,  undoubtedly,  to  be  addressed  to 
a  more  nothing  of  sticks,  straw,  and  old  clothes,  with  nothing 
better  than  a  shrivelled  pumpkin  for  a  head  ;  as  we  know  to  have 
been  the  scarecrow's  case.  Nevertheless,  as  we  must  carefully 
hold  in  remembrance,  Mother  Rigby  was  a  witch  of  singular  power 
and  dexterity ;  and,  keeping  this  fact  duly  before  our  minds,  we 
shall  see  nothing  beyond  credibility  in  the  remarkable  incidents  of 
our  story.  Indeed,  the  great  difficulty  will  be  at  once  got  over,  if 
we  can  only  bring  ourselves  to  believe  that,  as  soon  as  the  old 
dame  bade  him  puff,  there  came  a  whiff  of  smoke  from  the  scare- 
crow's mouth.  It  was  the  very  feeblest  of  whiffs,  to  be  sure  ;  but 
it  was  followed  by  another  and  another,  each  more  decided  than 
the  preceding  one. 

"  Puff  away,  my  pet !  puff  away,  my  pretty  one ! "  Mother 
Rigby  kept  repeating,  wii'u  her  pleasantest  smile.  "  It  is  the 
breath  of  life  to  ye  ;  and  that  you  may  take  my  word  for." 

Beyond  all  question  the  pipe  was  bewitched.  There  must  have 
been  a  spell  either  in  the  tobacco  or  in  the  fiercely-glowing  coal 
that  so  mysteriously  burned  on  the  top  of  it,  or  in  the  pungently- 
aromatic  smoke  which  exhaled  from  the  kindled  weed.  The 
figure,  after  a  few  doubtful  attempts,  at  length  blew  forth  a  volley 
of  smoke  extending  all  the  way  from  the  obscure  corner  into  the 
bar  of  sunshine.  There  it  eddied  and  melted  away  among  the 
motes  of  dust.  It  seemed  a  convulsive  effort ;  for  the  two  or  three 
next  whiffs  were  fainter,  although  the  coal  still  glowed  and  threw 
a  gleam  over  the  scarecrow's  visage.  The  old  witch  clapped  her 
skinny  hands  together,  and  smiled  encouragingly  upon  her  handi- 
work. She  saw  that  the  charm  worked  well.  The  shrivelled,  yel- 
low face,  which  heretofore  had  been  no  face  at  all,  had  already  a 
thin,  fantastic  haze,  as  it  were,  of  human  likeness,  shifting  to  and 
fro  across  it ;  sometimes  vanishing  entirely,  but  growing  more  per- 
ceptible than  ever  with  the  next  whiff  from  the  pipe.  The  whole 
figure,  in  like  manner,  assumed  a  show  of  life,  such  as  we  impart 


^^^^^m^si^^m. 


J 


NA  r II AM  EL   II A  WTIIORNE 


229 


the  pipe  from 

1  represented 

row. 

y  fine  fellow! 

t  addressed  to 
with  nothing 
know  to  have 
nust  carefully 
lingular  power 
nir  minds,  we 
e  incidents  of 
:e  got  over,  if 
an  as  the  old 
om  the  scare- 
be  sure ;  but 
decided  than 

ne!"  Mother 
,  "It  is  the 
I  for." 

ere  must  have 
^-glowing  coal 
he  pungently- 
[  weed.     The 

forth  a  volley 
Drner  into  the 
ay  among  the 
le  two  or  three 
red  and  threw 
h  clapped  her 
»on  her  handi- 
shrivelled,  yel- 

had  already  a 
shifting  to  and 
ring  more  per- 
e.  The  whole 
I  as  we  impart 


to  ill-defined  shapes  among  the  clouds,  and  half  deceive  ourselves 
with  the  i)astinie  of  our  own  fancy. 

If  we  must  needs  pry  closely  into  the  matter,  it  may  be  doubted 
whether  there  was  any  real  change,  after  all,  in  the  sordid,  wornout, 
worthless,  and  ill-jointed  substance  of  the  scarecrow ;  but  merely 
a  spectral  illusion,  and  a  cunning  effect  of  light  and  shade  so 
colored  and  contrived  as  to  delude  the  eyes  of  most  men.  The 
miracles  of  witchcraft  seem  always  to  have  had  a  very  shallow 
subtlety  ;  and,  at  least,  if  the  above  explanation  do  not  hit  the  truth 
of  the  process,  I  can  suggest  no  better. 

"  Well  puffed,  my  pretty  lad  ! "  still  cried  old  Mother  Rigby. 
"  Come,  another  good  stout  whiff,  and  let  it  be  with  might  and 
main.  Puff  for  thy  life,  I  tell  thee  !  Puff  out  of  the  very  bot- 
tom of  thy  heart ;  if  any  heart  thou  hast,  or  any  bottom  to  it ! 
Well  done,  again  !  Thou  didst  suck  in  that  mouthful  as  if  for  the 
pure  love  of  it." 

And  then  the  witch  beckoned  to  the  scarecrow,  throwing  so 
much  magnetic  potency  into  her  gesture  that  it  seemed  as  if  it 
must  inevitably  be  obeyed,  like  the  mystic  call  of  the  loadstone 
when  it  summons  the  iron. 

"Why  lurkest  thou  in  the  corner,  lazy  one?"  lid  she.  "Step 
forth  1     Thou  hast  the  world  before  thee  ! " 

Upon  my  word,  if  the  legend  were  not  one  which  I  heard  on 
my  grandmother's  knee,  and  which  had  established  its  place 
among  things  credible  before  my  childish  judgment  could  analyze 
its  probability,  I  question  whether  I  should  have  the  face  to  tell 
it  now. 

In  obedience  to  Mother  Rigby's  word,  and  extending  its  arm 
as  if  to  reach  her  outstretched  hand,  the  figure  made  a  step  for- 
ward—  a  kind  of  hitch  and  jerk,  however,  rather  than  a  step — 
then  tottered  and  almost  lost  its  balance.  What  could  the  witch 
expect?  It  was  nothing,  after  all,  but  a  scarecrow  stuck  upon  two 
sticks.  But  the  strong-willed  old  beldam  scowled,  and  beckoned, 
and  flung  the  energy  of  her  purpose  so  forcibly  at  this  poor  com- 
bination of  rotten  wood,  and  musty  straw,  and  ragged  garments, 
that  it  was  compelled  to  show  itself  a  man,  in  spite  of  thi;  reality 
of  things.  So  it  stepped  into  the  bar  of  sunshine.  There  it 
stood — poor  devil  of  a  contrivance  that  it  was  !  —  with  only  the 


,R  J^:^*4^>t*ki<SC£a^^-k.    - 


230 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


ill 


thinnest  vesture  of  human  similitude  about  it,  through  wliich  was 
evident  the  stiff,  rickety,  incongruous,  failed,  tattered,  good-for- 
notiiing  patchwork  of  its  substance,  ready  to  sink  in  a  heap  upon 
the  floor,  as  conscious  of  its  own  unworthiness  to  be  erect.  Shall 
I  confess  the  trutli  ?  At  its  present  point  of  vivification,  tlie  scare- 
crow reminds  me  of  some  of  the  lukewarm  and  abortive  charac- 
ters, composed  of  heterotreneous  materials,  used  for  the  thousandth 
time,  and  never  worth  using,  with  which  romance  writers,  (and 
myself,  no  doubt,  among  the  rest,)  have  so  overpeopled  the  world 
of  fiction. 

But  the  fierce  old  hag  began  to  get  angry  and  show  a  glimpse 
of  her  diabolic  nature,  (like  a  snake's  head,  peeping  with  a  hiss 
out  of  her  bosom,)  at  this  i)usillanimous  behavior  of  the  thing 
which  she  had  taken  the  trouble  to  put  together. 

"  Puff  away,  wre'.ch  !  "  cried  she,  wrathfully.  "  Puff,  puff,  puff, 
thou  thing  of  straw  and  emptiness !  thou  rag  or  two  !  thou  meal 
bag  !  thou  pumpkin  head  !  thou  nothing  !  Where  shall  I  find  a 
name  vile  enough  to  call  thee  by?  Puff,  I  say,  and  suck  in  thy 
ftintastic  life  along  with  the  smoke  ;  else  I  snatch  the  pipe  from 
thy  mouth  and  hurl  thee  where  that  red  coal  came  from." 

Thus  threatened,  the  unhappy  scarecrow  had  nothing  for  it  but 
to  puff  away  for  dear  life.  As  need  was,  therefore,  it  applied  it- 
self lustily  to  the  pipe  and  sent  forth  such  abundant  volleys  of 
tobac'o  smoke  that  the  small  cottage  kitchen  became  all  vaporous. 
The  one  sunbeam  struggled  mistily  through,  and  could  but  imper- 
fectly define  the  image  of  the  cracked  and  dusty  window  pane 
on  the  opposite  wall.  Mother  Rigby,  meanwhile,  with  one  brown 
arm  akimbo  and  the  other  stretched  towards  the  figure,  loomed 
grimly  amid  the  obscurity  with  such  port  and  expression  as  when 
she  was  wont  to  heave  a  ponderous  nightmare  on  her  victims  and 
stand  at  the  bedside  to  enjoy  their  agony.  In  fear  and  trembling 
did  this  poor  scarecrow  puff.  But  its  efforts;  it  must  be  acknow- 
ledged, served  an  excellent  purpose;  for,  with  each  successive 
whiff,  the  figure  lost  more  and  more  of  its  dizzy  and  perplexing 
tenuity  and  seemed  to  take  denser  substance.  Its  very  garments, 
moreover,  partook  of  the  magical  change,  and  shone  with  the 
gloss  of  novelty  and  glistened  with  the  skilfully  embroidered  gold 
that  had  long  ago  been  rent  away.     And,  half  revealed  among 


NA  TllANlEL  HA  WTHORNE 


231 


iiigh  wliich  was 
lered,  good-for- 
in  a  heap  upon 
be  erect.  Shall 
ation,  tlie  scare- 
ibortive  charac- 
r  the  thousandth 
ce  writers,  (and 
:opled  the  world 

show  a  glimpse 
:)ing  with  a  hiss 
or  of  the  thing 

"  Puff,  puff,  puff, 
two !  thou  meal 
re  shall  I  find  a 
and  suck  in  thy 
ch  the  pipe  from 
e  from." 

othing  for  it  but 
re,  it  applied  it- 
ndant  volleys  of 
ime  all  vaporous, 
could  but  iniper- 
5ty  window  pane 
,  with  one  brown 
le  figure,  loomed 
pression  as  when 

her  victims  and 
ar  and  trembling 
must  be  acknow- 

each  successive 
'  and  perplexing 
ts  very  garments, 

shone  with  the 
mbroidered  gold 

revealed  among 


the  smoke,  a  yellow  visage  bent  its  lustreless  eyes  on  Mother 
Rigby. 

At  last  the  old  witch  clinched  her  fist  anil  shook  it  at  the  figure. 
Not  that  she  was  positively  angry,  but  merely  acting  on  the  i)rin- 
ciple  — perhaps  intrue,  or  not  the  only  truth,  though  as  high  a 
one  as  Mother  Rigby  couid  be  expected  to  attain  — that  feeble 
and  torpid  natures,  being  incapable  of  better  inspiration,  must  be 
stirred  up  by  fear.  But  here  was  the  crisis.  Should  she  fail  in 
what  she  now  sought  to  effect,  it  was  her  ruthless  purpose  to  scat- 
ter the  miserable  simulacre  into  its  original  elements. 

"  Thou  hast  a  man's  aspect,"  said  she,  sternly.  "  Have  also 
the  echo  and  mockery  of  a  voice  !     I  bid  thee  speak  ! " 

The  scarecrow  gasped,  struggled,  and  at  length  emitted  a  mur- 
mur,  which  was  so  incorporated  with  its  smoky  breath  that  you 
could  scarcely  tell  whether  it  were  indeed  a  voice  or  only  a  whiff 
of  tobacco.  Some  narrators  of  this  legend  hold  the  opinion  that 
Mother  Rigby's  conjurations  and  the  fierceness  of  her  will  had 
compelled  a  familiar  spirit  into  the  figure,  and  that  the  voice 
was  his. 

"Mother,"  mumbled  the  poor  stifled  voice,  "be  not  so  awful 
with  me  !  I  would  fain  speak ;  but  being  without  wits,  what  can  I 
say  ?  " 

"Thou  canst  speak,  darling,  canst  thou?"  cried  Mother  Rigby, 
relaxing  her  grim  countenance  into  a  smile.  "And  what  shall 
thou  say,  quotha  !  Say,  indeed  !  Art  thou  of  the  brotherhood 
of  the  empty  skull,  and  demandest  of  me  what  thou  shalt  say? 
Thou  shalt  say  a  thousand  things,  and  saying  them  a  thousand 
times  over,  thou  shalt  still  have  said  nothing !  Be  not  afraid,  I 
tell  thee  !  When  thou  comest  into  the  world,  (whither  I  purpose 
sending  thee  forthwith,)  thou  shalt  not  lack  the  wherewithal  to 
talk.  Talk  !  Why,  thou  shalt  babble  like  a  mill  stream,  if  thou 
wilt.    Thou  ha.st  brains  enough  for  that,  I  trow  !  " 

"  At  your  service,  mother,"  responded  the  figure. 

"And  that  was  well  said,  my  pretty  one,"  answered  Mother 
Rigby.  "Then  thou  spakest  like  thyself,  and  meant  nothing. 
Thou  shalt  have  a  hundred  such  set  phrases,  and  five  hundred  to 
the  boot  of  them.  And  now,  darling,  I  have  taken  so  much  pains 
with  thee,  and  thou  art  so  beautiful,  that,  by  my  troth,  I  love  thee 


"*-^'v^   '--5- 


lit 


AMEh'H.lX  rh'USE 


better  tlian  any  witi  h's  inii)i>ct  in  the  world  ;  anil  I've  made  them 
of  all  sorts— (lay,  wax,  straw,  sticks,  ni^'hl  fog,  morning  mist, 
sea  foam,  and  <  hiinney  smoke.  Hut  thou  art  the  very  host.  So 
give  heed  to  what  I  say." 

"  Ves,  kind  mother,"  said  the  figure,  "  with  all  my  heart !  " 

"With  all  thy  heart  !"  rried  the  oUl  witch,  setting  her  hands  to 
her  sides  ami  laughing  loudly.  "  'I'hou  hast  such  a  i)retty  way  of 
speaking.  With  all  thy  heart  !  And  thou  didst  put  tiiy  hand  to 
the  left  side  of  thy  waistcoat  as  if  thou  really  hadst  one  !  " 

So  now,  in  high  good  humor  with  this  fantastic  contrivance  of 
hers.  Mother  Rigby  told  the  scarecrow  that  it  must  go  and  i)lay  its 
part  in  the  great  world,  where  not  one  man  in  a  hundred,  she 
affirmed,  was  gifted  with  more  real  substance  than  itself.  And, 
that  he  might  hokl  u))  his  head  with  the  best  of  them,  she 
endowed  him,  on  the  spot,  with  an  unreckonablc  amount  of 
wealth.  It  consisted  partly  of  a  gold  mine  in  l-'-ldorado,  and  of 
ten  thousand  shares  in  a  broken  bubble,  ami  of  half  a  million 
acres  of  vineyard  at  the  North  Pole,  and  of  a  castle  in  the  air, 
ami  a  chateau  in  Spain,  together  with  all  the  rents  and  income 
therefrom  accruing.  She  further  made  over  to  him  the  cargo  of  a 
certain  ship,  laden  with  salt  of  Cadiz,  which  she  herself,  by  her 
necromantic  arts,  had  caused  to  founder,  ten  years  before,  in  the 
deepest  part  of  mid  ocean.  If  the  salt  were  not  dissolved,  and 
could  be  brought  to  market,  it  would  fetch  a  pretty  penny  among 
the  fishermen.  That  he  might  not  lack  ready  money,  she  gave 
him  a  copper  farthing  of  Hirmingham  manufacture,  being  all  the 
coin  she  had  about  her,  and  likewise  a  great  deal  of  brass,  which 
she  applied  to  his  forehead,  thus  making  it  yellower  than  ever. 

"  With  that  brass  alone,"  quoth  Mother  Rigby,  "  thou  canst  pay 
thy  way  all  over  the  earth.  Kiss  me,  pretty  darling  !  I  have  done 
my  best  for  thee." 

Furthermore,  that  the  adventurer  might  lack  no  possible  advan- 
tage towards  a  fair  start  in  life,  this  excellent  old  dame  gave  him 
a  token  by  which  he  was  to  introduce  himself  to  a  certain  magis- 
trate, member  of  the  council,  merchaiu,  and  elder  of  the  church, 
(the  four  capacities  constituting  but  one  man,)  who  stood  at  the 
head  of  society  in  the  neighboring  metropolis.  The  token  was 
neither  more  nor  less  than  a  single  word,  which  Mother  Rigby 


NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 


ass 


■e  made  them 
nurnin^  iiiiiit, 
■cry  best.     So 

heart !  " 

her  liands  to 
pretty  way  of 
t  tliy  haiul  to 
one  !  " 

oiitrivance  of 
;o  anil  i)lay  its 

hundred,  she 
\  itself.     And, 

of  them,  she 
le  amount  of 
orado,  and  of 
half  a  million 
,tle  in  the  air, 
s  and  income 

the  cargo  of  a 
herself,  by  her 

before,  in  the 

dissolved,  and 

penny  among 
oney,  she  gave 
,  being  all  the 
)f  brass,  which 

than  ever, 
thou  canst  pay 
I  have  done 

jossible  advan- 
lame  gave  him 
certain  magis- 
of  the  church, 
o  stood  at  the 
rhe  token  was 
Mother  Rigby 


whispered  to  the  scarecrow,  and  which  the  scarecrow  was  to 
whisper  to  the  merchant. 

"  Couty  as  the  old  fellow  is,  he'll  run  thy  errands  for  thee,  when 
once  thou  hast  given  him  that  word  in  his  car,"  said  the  old  witch. 
"  Mother  Rigby  knows  the  worshipful  Justice  Gookin,  and  the  wor- 
shipful Justice  knows  Mother  Rigby  !" 

Here  the  witch  thrust  her  wrinkled  face  close  to  the  puppet's, 
chuckling  irrepressibly,  and  fidgeting  all  through  her  system,  with 
delight  at  the  idea  which  she  meant  to  <  ommimicate. 

"  The  worshipful  Master  ( \>  )okm,"  whispered  she, "  hath  a  comely 
maiden  to  his  <laughter.  And  h:irk  ye,  my  jjct  !  Thou  hast  a  fair 
outside,  and  a  i)retty  wit  cn<jugh  of  thine  own.  Yea,  a  pretty  wit 
enough  !  'I'hou  wilt  think  better  of  it  when  thou  hast  seen  more 
of  other  people's  wits.  Now,  with  thy  outside  and  thy  inside,  thou 
art  the  very  man  to  win  a  young  girl's  heart.  Never  doubt  it !  I 
tell  thee  it  shall  be  so.  Tut  but  a  bold  face  on  the  matter,  sigh, 
smile,  flourish  thy  hat,  thrust  forth  thy  lor,  like  a  dancing  master, 
put  thy  right  hanrl  to  the  left  side  of  thy  waistcoat,  and  pretty 
Polly  (lookin  is  thine  own  !  " 

All  this  while  the  new  creature  had  been  sucking  in  and  exhal- 
ing the  vapory  fragrance  of  his  pipe,  and  seemed  now  to  continue 
this  occupation  as  much  for  the  enjoyment  it  afforded  as  because 
it  was  an  essential  condition  of  his  existence.  It  was  wonderful 
to  see  how  exceedmgly  like  a  human  being  it  behaved.  Its  eyes, 
(for  it  appeared  to  possess  a  pair,)  were  bent  on  Mother  Rigby, 
and  at  suitable  junctures  it  nodded  or  shook  its  head.  Neither 
did  it  lack  words  proper  for  the  occasion  :  "  Really  !  Indeed  ! 
Pray  tell  me  !  Is  it  possible  !  U|)on  my  word  !  Ry  no  means  ! 
O  !  Ah  !  Hem  ! "  and  other  such  weighty  utterances  as  imply 
attention,  intjuiry,  acquiescence,  or  dissent  on  tli  ■  part  of  the 
auditor.  Even  had  you  stood  by  and  seen  the  scarecrow  made 
you  could  scarcely  have  resisted  the  conviction  that  it  perfectly 
understood  the  cunning  counsels  which  the  old  witch  poured  into 
its  counterfeit  of  an  ear.  The  more  earnestly  it  applied  its  lips 
to  the  pipe  the  more  distinctly  was  its  human  likeness  stamped 
among  visible  realities,  the  more  sagacious  grew  its  expression,  the 
moK'  lifelike  its  gestures  and  movements,  and  the  more  intelligibly 
autlible  its  voice.     Its  garments,  too,  glistened  so  much  the  brighter 


I  .ii'iifiiiKi  tmtmimittmtmmm 


m 


234 


AMEKIC.IX  /'A-OS/i 


with  an  illusory  mnRiiifircnre.  The  very  p'pc,  in  which  Imrned  the 
s|)ell  of  all  this  womlcrwDrk,  ccasi-d  to  appeal-  as  a  smoke-Mackeneil 
earthen  stiim|),  and  became  a  meerschaum,  with  painted  buwl  and 
amber  mouthpiece. 

It  might  be  apprehended,  however,  that  as  the  life  of  the  illu- 
sion seemed  identical  with  the  vapor  of  the  pipe,  it  would  termi- 
nate simultaneously  with  the  reduction  of  the  tobacco  to  ashes. 
IJut  the  beldam  foresaw  the  difliculty. 

"  Hold  thou  the  pii)e,  my  precious  one,"  said  she,  "while  I  fill 
it  for  thee  again." 

It  was  sorrowful  to  behold  how  the  fine  gentleman  began  to 
faile  back  into  a  scarecrow  while  Mother  kigby  shook  the  ashes 
out  of  the  pipe  and  proceeded  to  replenish  it  from  her  tobacco 
box. 

"  Dickon,"  cried  she,  in  her  high,  sharp  tone,  "  another  coal  for 
this  pipe  I  " 

No  sooner  said  than  the  intensely  red  speck  of  fire  was  glowing 
within  the  pipe  bowl ;  and  the  scarecrow,  without  waiting  for  the 
witch's  bidding,  applied  the  tube  to  his  lips  and  drew  in  a  few 
short,  convulsive  whiffs,  which  soon,  however,  became  legular  and 
equable. 

"  Now,  mine  own  heart's  darling,"  quoth  Mother  Rigby,  "  what- 
ever may  happen  to  thee,  thou  must  stick  to  thy  pipe.  Thy  life  is 
in  it  ,  and  that,  at  least,  thou  knowest  wel.,  if  thou  knowest  nought 
besides.  Stick  to  thy  pipe,  I  say  !  Smoke,  puff,  blow  thy  cloud  ; 
and  leil  tnc  peoplj,  i:  any  question  be  made,  that  it  is  for  thy 
l-.oalth,  anil  that  so  the  physician  orders  thee  to  do.  And,  sweet 
one,  >vhen  thou  shall  find  thy  pipe  getting;  low,  go  apart  into  some 
corner,  .nnd,  (first  filling  thyself  with  smnlvc.)  cry  sharply,  *  Dickon, 
a  fre:  i'  pipe  of  tobacco  ! '  and, '  Dickon,  another  coal  for  my  pipe  ! ' 
and  Iiave  it  into  thy  pretty  mouth  as  speedily  as  may  be.  P^Isc,  in- 
stead of  a  gallant  gentleman  in  a  gold-laced  coat,  thou  wilt  be  but 
a  jumble  of  sticks  and  tattered  clothes,  and  a  bag  of  straw,  and  a 
withered  pumpkin  !  Now  depart,  my  treasure,  and  good  luck  go 
with  thee  ! " 

"  Never  fear,  mother ! "  said  the  figure,  in  a  stout  voice,  and 
sending  forth  a  courageous  whiff  of  smoke.  "  I  will  thrive,  if  an 
honest  man  and  a  gentleman  may  !  " 


EttiMUl 


ell  Imrned  the 
)kt'-l)lackenc(l 
ited  buwl  ami 

fc  of  the  illu- 
woiild  termi- 
cco  to  ashes. 

;,  "  while  I  fill 

nan  began  to 
)ok  the  ashes 
1  her  tobacco 

other  coal  for 

e  was  glowing 
•ailing  for  the 
Irew  in  a  few 
le  tegular  and 

^'gby, "  what- 
e.  Thy  life  is 
lowest  nought 
3w  thy  cloud  j 
it  is  for  thy 
And,  sweet 
)art  into  some 
rply, '  Dickon, 
for  my  pipe  ! ' 
be.  P^Isc,  in- 
ou  wilt  be  but 
"  straw,  and  a 
good  luck  go 

ut  voice,  and 
1  thrive,  if  an 


NA  TIIANIEL   HA  W IIIORNE 


235 


"  O,  tho'i  wilt  bo  the  death  of  me  !  "  cried  the  old  wit(  li,  ( on- 
vulscd  with  Iiiighter.  "'i'li.it  was  well  said.  If  an  honest  man 
and  a  gentlemar  may  !  Thou  playcst  thy  |)art  to  perfection.  (Jet 
along  with  thee  for  a  smart  fellow;  and  1  will  wager  on  thy  head, 
as  a  man  of  pit  i  and  substance,  with  a  brain,  and  what  they  rail 
a  heart,  and  all  else  that  a  man  should  have,  against  any  other 
thing  on  two  legs.  I  hold  myself  a  better  witch  than  yesterday, 
for  thy  sake.  Did  not  I  make  thee?  And  I  defy  any  witch  in 
New  Kngland  to  make  such  another  !  Here  ;  take  my  staff  along 
with  thee  ! " 

'Ihe  staff,  though  it  was  but  a  plain  o.aken  stick,  immediately 
took,  the  aspect  of  a  gold-headed  cane. 

"  That  gold  head  has  as  much  sense  in  it  as  thine  own,"  said 
Mother  Rigby,  "and  it  will  guide  thee  straight  to  worshipful  Mas- 
ter Gookin's  door,  (iet  thee  gone,  my  jjretty  pet,  my  darling,  my 
precious  one,  my  treasure ;  and  if  any  ask  thy  name,  it  is  Keather- 
top.  For  thou  hast  a  feather  in  thy  hat,  and  I  have  thrust  a  hand- 
ful of  feathers  into  the  hollow  of  thy  head,  and  thy  wig  too  is 
of  the  fashion  they  call  Feathertop,  —  so  be  Feathertop  thy 
name ! " 

And,  issuing  from  the  cottage,  Feathertop  strode  manfully  towards 
town.  Mother  Rigby  stood  at  the  threshold,  well  pleased  to  see 
how  the  sunbeams  glistened  on  him,  as  if  all  his  magnificence  were 
real,  and  how  diligently  and  lovingly  he  smoked  his  pipe,  and  how 
handsomely  he  walked,  in  spite  of  a  little  stiffness  of  his  legs.  She 
watched  him  until  out  of  sight,  and  threw  a  witch  benediction  after 
her  darling,  when  a  turn  of  the  road  snatched  him  from  her  view. 

[From  Mossfi  from  an  Old  Manse,  "  Feathertop;  a  Moralized  Legend." 
Revised  edition  of  1S54.] 


THE   REVELATION  OF  THE   SCARLET   LETTER 

The  eloquent  voice,  on  which  the  souls  of  the  listening  audience 
had  been  borne  aloft  as  on  the  swelling  waves  of  the  sea,  at  length 
came  to  a  pause.  There  was  a  momentary  silence,  ])rofound  as 
what  should  follow  the  utterance  of  oracles.    Then  ensued  a  mur- 


F's 


# 


m 


atmrntummm^mmm 


MM 


2?,6 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


niur  and  half-hushed  tumult ;  as  if  the  auditors,  released  from  the 
high  spell  that  had  transported  them  into  the  region  of  another's 
mind,  were  returning  into  themselves,  with  all  their  awe  anil  won- 
der still  heavy  on  them.  In  a  moment  more,  the  crowd  began  to 
gush  forth  from  the  doors  of  the  church.  Now  that  there  was  an 
end,  they  needed  other  breath,  more  fit  to  support  the  gross  and- 
earthly  life  into  which  they  relapsed,  than  that  atmosphere  which 
the  preacher  had  converted  into  words  of  flame,  and  had  l)urdened 
with  tile  rich  fragrance  of  his  thought. 

In  the  opeii  air  their  rapture  broke  into  speech.  The  street 
and  the  market-place  absolutely  babbleil,  from  side  to  side,  with 
applauiics  of  the  minister.  Mis  hearers  could  not  rest  until  they 
had  told  one  another  of  what  each  knew  better  than  he  could  tell 
or  hear.  According  to  their  unitetl  testimony,  never  had  man 
spoken  in  so  wise,  so  high,  and  so  holy  a  s])irit,  as  he  that  s])ake 
this  day ;  nor  had  ins])iration  ever  breathed  through  mortal  lips 
more  evidently  than  it  did  throiigh  his.  Its  influence  could  be 
seen,  as  it  were,  descending  upon  him,  and  possessing  him,  and 
continually  lifting  him  out  of  the  written  discourse  that  lay  before 
him,  and  filling  him  with  ideas  that  must  have  been  as  marvellous 
to  himself  as  to  his  audience.  His  subject,  it  appeared,  had  been 
the  relation  between  the  Deity  and  the  communities  of  mankind, 
with  a  special  reference  to  the  New  England  which  they  were  here 
planting  in  the  wilderness.  And,  as  he  drew  towards  the  close,  a 
spirit  as  of  prophecy  had  come  upon  him,  constraining  him  to  its 
purpose  as  mightily  as  the  old  prophets  of  Israel  were  constrained  ; 
only  with  its  difference,  that,  whereas  the  Jewish  seer^  had  de- 
nounced judgment?  and  ruin  on  their  country,  it  was  his  mission 
to  foretell  a  high  and  glorious  destiny  for  the  newly  gathered 
people  of  the  Lord.  But,  throughout  it  all,  and  through  the 
whole  discourse,  there  had  been  a  certain  deep,  sad  undertone 
of  pathos,  which  could  not  be  interpreted  otherwise  than  as  the 
natural  regret  of  one  soon  to  pass  away.  Yes  ;  their  minister  whom 
they  so  loved  —  and  who  so  loved  them  all,  that  he  could  not  de- 
part heavenward  without  a  sigh  —  had  the  foreboding  of  untimely 
death  upon  him,  and  would  soon  leave  them  in  their  tears  !  This 
idea  of  his  transitory  stay  on  earth  gave  the  last  emphasis  to  the 
effect  which  the  preacher  had  produced ;  it  was  as  if  an  angel,  in 


I 


seci  from  the 
of  another's 
we  ami  won- 
iwd  began  to 
there  was  an 
ie  gross  and- 
ipherc  which 
ad  l)urdened 

The  street 
to  side,  with 
.'St  until  they 
he  could  tell 
•er  had  man 
e  that  spake 
1  mortal  lips 
ce  could  be 
ng  him,  and 
at  lay  before 
is  marvellous 
:d,  had  been 
of  mankind, 
ey  were  here 

the  close,  a 
ng  him  to  its 
constrained ; 
:er3  had  de- 

his  mission 
fly  gathered 
through  the 
d  undertone 

than  as  the 
inister  whom 
ould  not  de- 

of  untimely 
tears !  This 
phasis  to  the 
an  angel,  in 


NA  TH.W'IEI.   II A  WTIIOKNE 


237 


his  passage  to  the  skies,  had  shaken  his  bright  wings  over  the 
people  for  an  instant,  -  at  once  a  sliadow  and  a  splendor,  —  and 
had  shed  down  a  shower  of  golden  truths  upon  them. 

Thus,  there  had  come  to  tiie  Reverend  Mr.  Dimmesdale  —  as 
to  most  men,  in  their  various  spheres,  thougli  seldom  recognized 
until  they  see  it  far  behind  them  —  an  epoch  of  life  more  brilliant 
and  full  of  triumph  than  any  previous  one,  or  than  any  which  could 
hereafter  be.  He  stood,  at  this  moment,  on  the  very  proudest 
eminence  of  superiority,  to  which  the  gifts  of  intellect,  rich  lore, 
prevailing  eloquence,  and  a  reputation  of  whitest  sanctity,  could 
exalt  a  clergyman  in  New  England's  earliest  days,  when  the  pro- 
fessional character  was  of  itself  a  lofty  pedestal.  Such  was  the 
position  which  the  minister  occupied,  as  he  bowed  his  head  for- 
ward on  the  cushions  of  ihe  pulpit,  at  the  close  of  his  Election 
Sermon.  Meanwhile  Hester  Prynne  was  standing  beside  the  scaf- 
fold of  the  pillory,  with  the  scarlet   letter  still  burning  on  her 

breast ! 

Now  was  heard  again  the  clangor  of  music,  and  the  measured 
tramp  of  the  military  escort,  issuing  from  the  church-door.  The 
procession  was  to  be  marshalled  thence  to  the  town-hall,  where 
a  solemn  banquet  would  complete  the  ceremonies  of  the  day. 

Once  more,  therefore,  the  train  of  venerable  and  majestic  fathers 
was  seen  moving  through  a  broad  pathway  of  the  people,  who  drew 
back  reverently,  on  either  side,  as  the  Governor  and  magistrates, 
the  old  and  wise  men,  the  holy  ministers,  and  all  that  were  eminent 
and  renowned,  advanced  in  the  midst  of  them.  When  they  were 
fairly  in  the  market-place,  their  presence  was  greeted  by  a  shout. 
This  —  though  doubtless  it  might  acquire  additional  force  and  vol- 
ume from  the  childlike  loyalty  which  the  age  awarded  to  its  rulers 
—  was  felt  to  be  an  irrepressible  outburst  of  enthusiasm  kindled 
in  the  auditors  by  that  high  strain  of  eloquence  which  was  yet 
reverberating  in  their  ears.  Each  felt  the  impulse  in  himself, 
and,  in  the  same  breath,  caught  it  from  his  neighbor.  Within  the 
church,  it  had  har;l'iy  been  kept  down  ;  beneath  the  sky,  it  pealed  up- 
ward to  the  zenith.  There  were  human  beings  enough,  and  enough 
of  highly  wrought  and  symphonious  feeling,  to  produce  that  more 
impressive  sound  than  the  organ  tones  of  the  blast,  or  the  thunder, 
or  the  roar  of  the  sea  ;  even  that  mighty  swell  of  many  voices. 


r^% 


tS 


# 


wm 


BL 


238 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


l)leiKlcd  into  one  great  voice  by  the  universal  impulse  which  makes 
likewise  one  vast  iieart  out  of  the  many.  Never,  from  the  soil  of 
New  iMighinii,  had  gone  up  such  a  shout  !  Never,  on  New  England 
soil,  had  stood  the  man  so  honored  by  iiis  mortal  brethren  as  the 
preaclier  ! 

How  fared  it  with  him  then?  Were  there  not  the  brilliant 
particles  of  a  halo  in  the  air  about  his  head?  So  etherealized  by 
spirit  as  he  was,  and  so  apotheosized  by  worshipping  admirers,  did 
his  footsteps,  in  the  procession,  really  tread  upon  the  dust  of  earth? 

As  the  ranks  of  military  men  and  civil  fathers  moved  onward, 
all  eyes  were  turned  towards  the  point  where  the  minister  was  seen 
to  approach  among  them.  The  shout  died  into  a  murmur,  as  one 
portion  of  the  crowd  after  another  obtained  a  glimpse  of  him. 
How  feeble  and  pale  he  looked,  amid  all  his  triumph  !  The 
energy  —  or  say,  rather,  the  inspiration  which  had  held  him  up 
until  he  should  have  delivered  the  sacred  message  that  brought  its 
own  strength  along  with  it  from  Heaven  —  was  withdrawn,  now 
that  it  had  so  faithfully  performed  its  office.  The  glow,  which 
they  iiad  just  before  beheld  burning  on  his  cheek,  was  extinguished, 
like  a  flame  that  sinks  down  hopelessly  among  the  late-decaying 
embers.  It  seemed  hardly  the  face  of  a  man  alive,  with  such  a 
deathlike  hue ;  it  was  hardly  a  man  with  life  in  him  that  tottered 
on  his  path  so  nervelessly,  yet  tottered,  and  did  not  fall ! 

One  of  his  clerical  brethren,  —  it  was  the  venerable  John  Wilson, 
—  observing  the  state  in  which  Mr.  Dimmesdale  was  left  by  the 
retiring  wave  of  intellect  and  sensibility,  stepped  forward  hastily 
to  offer  his  support.  The  minister  tremulously,  but  decidedly, 
repelled  tlie  old  man's  arm.  He  still  walked  onward,  if  that  move- 
ment could  be  so  described,  which  rather  resembled  the  wavering 
effort  of  an  infant  with  its  mother's  arms  in  view,  outstretched  to 
tempt  him  forward.  And  now,  almost  imperceptible  as  were  the 
latter  steps  of  his  progress,  he  had  come  opposite  the  well- 
remembered  and  weather-darkened  scaffold,  where,  long  since, 
with  all  that  dreary  lapse  of  time  between,  Hester  Prynne  had 
encoimtered  the  world's  ignominious  stare.  There  stood  Hester, 
holding  little  Fearl  by  the  hand  !  And  there  was  the  scarlet  letter 
on  her  breast  !  The  minister  here  made  a  pause,  although  the 
music  still  played  the  stately  and  rejoicing  march  to  which  the 


I 


\ 


NA  riJANIEL  HA  WTHORNE 


239 


i\\ic\\  makes 
n  the  soil  of 
ew  England 
thren  as  the 

the  brilliant 
•realized  by 
rlmirers,  did 
jst  of  earth  ? 
'ed  onward, 
ter  was  seen 
mur,  as  one 
pse  of  him. 
Tiph  !  The 
leld  him  up 
;  brought  its 
idrawn,  now 
glow,  which 
xtinguished, 
ite-decayiug 
with  such  a 
liat  tottered 
11! 

ohn  Wilson, 
left  by  the 
ivard  hastily 
t  decidedly, 
f  that  move- 
he  wavering 
stretched  to 
as  were  the 
e  the  well- 
long  since, 
Prynne  had 
lod  Hester, 
icarlet  letter 
Ithough  the 
)  which  the 


procession  moved.  It  summoned  him  onward,  —  onward  to 
the  festival  !  —  but  here  he  made  a  pause. 

Bellingham,  for  the  last  few  moments,  had  kept  an  anxious  eye 
upon  him.  He  now  left  his  own  place  in  the  procession,  and 
advanced  to  give  assistance,  judging,  from  Mr.  Dimmesdale's 
aspect,  that  he  must  otherwise  inevitably  fall.  But  there  was 
something  in  the  latter's  expression  that  warned  back  the 
magistrate,  although  a  man  not  readily  obeying  the  vague  intima- 
tions that  pass  from  one  spirit  to  another.  The  crowd,  mean- 
while, looked  on  with  awe  and  wonder.  This  earthly  faintness 
was,  in  their  view,  only  another  phase  of  the  minister's  celestial 
strength ;  nor  would  it  have  seemed  a  miracle  too  high  to  be 
wrought  for  one  so  holy,  had  he  ascended  before  their  eyes,  wax- 
ing dimmer  and  brighter,  and  fading  at  last  into  the  light  of 
heaven. 

He  turned  towards  the  scaffold,  and  stretched  forth  his  arms. 

"  Hester,"  said  he,  "  come  hither  !     Come,  my  little  Pearl  ! " 

It  was  a  ghastly  look  with  which  he  regarded  them  ;  but  there 
was  something  at  once  tender  and  strangely  triumphant  in  it.  The 
child,  with  the  bird-like  motion  which  was  one  of  her  characteris- 
tics, flew  to  him,  and  clasped  her  arms  about  his  knees.  Hester 
Prynne  —  slowly,  as  if  impelled  by  inevitable  fate,  and  against  her 
strongest  will  —  likewise  drew  near,  but  paused  before  she  reached 
him.  At  this  instant,  old  Roger  Chillingworth  thrust  himself 
through  the  crowd,  —  or,  perhaps,  so  dark,  disturbed,  and  evil, 
was  his  look,  he  rose  up  out  of  some  nether  region,  —  to  snatch 
back  his  victim  from  what  he  sought  to  do  !  Be  that  as  it  might, 
the  old  man  rushed  forward,  and  caught  the  minister  by  the  arm. 

"Madman,  hold!  what  is  your  purpose?"  whispered  he. 
"  Wave  back  that  woman  !  Cast  off  this  child !  All  shall  be  well  ! 
Do  not  blacken  your  fame,  and  perish  in  dishonor  !  I  can  yet  save 
you  ;     Would  you  bring  infamy  on  your  sacred  profession?  " 

"  Ha,  tempter  !  Methinks  thou  art  too  late  ! "  answered  the 
minister,  encountering  his  eye,  fearfully,  but  firmly.  "Thy  power 
is  not  what  it  was  !     With  God's  help,  I  shall  escape  thee  now  !  " 

He  again  extended  his  hand  to  the  woman  of  the  scarlet  letter. 

"  Hester  Prynne,"  cried  he,  with  a  piercing  earnestness,  "  in  the 
name  of  Him,  so  terrible  and  so  merciful,  who  gives  me  grace,  at 


1* 


.  .uMMHiiftM'iJiiPiiii 


240 


AMERICAN  PA' OS/-: 


this  last  moiiieiit,  to  do  what  —  for  my  own  heavy  sin  and  misera- 
ble agony  —  I  withheld  myself  from  doing  seven  years  ago,  come 
hither  now,  and  twine  thy  strength  about  me  !  Thy  strength, 
Hester;  but  let  it  be  guided  by  the  will  which  (lod  hath  granted 
me  !  This  wretched  and  wronged  old  man  is  opposing  it  with  all 
his  migiit !  with  all  iiis  own  might,  and  the  fiend's  !  Come,  Hester, 
come  !     Support  me  up  yonder  scaffold  !  " 

The  crowd  was  in  a  tumult.  The  men  of  rank  and  dignity,  who 
stood  more  immediately  around  the  clergyman,  were  so  taken  by 
surprise,  and  so  perplexed  as  to  the  purport  of  what  they  saw,  — 
unable  to  receive  the  ex])lanation  which  most  readily  i)resented 
itself,  or  to  imagine  any  other,  —  that  they  remained  silent  and 
inactive  spectators  of  the  judgment  which  Providence  seemed 
about  to  work.  They  beheld  the  minister,  leaning  on  Hester's 
shoulder,  and  supported  by  her  arm  around  him,  approach  the 
scaffold,  and  ascend  its  steps  ;  while  still  the  little  hand  of  the  sin- 
born  child  was  clasped  in  his.  Old  Roger  Chillingworth  followed, 
as  one  intimately  ccnnectcd  with  the  drama  of  guilt  and  sorrow  in 
which  they  had  all  been  actors,  and  well  entitled,  therefore,  to  be 
present  at  its  closing  scene. 

"  Hadst  thou  sought  the  whole  earth  over,"  said  he,  looking 
darkly  at  the  clergyman,  "  there  was  no  one  place  so  secret,  —  no 
high  place  nor  lowly  place,  where  thou  couldst  have  escaped  me, 
—  save  on  this  very  scaffold  !  " 

"  Thanks  be  to  Him  who  hath  led  me  hither  !  "  answered  the 
minister. 

Yet  he  trembled,  and  turned  to  Hester  with  an  expression  of 
doubt  and  anxiety  in  his  eyes,  not  the  less  evidently  betrayed,  that 
there  was  a  feeble  smile  upon  his  lips. 

"  Is  not  this  better,"  murmured  he,  "  than  what  we  dreamed  of 
in  the  forest?" 

"  I  know  not !  I  know  not !  "  she  hurriedly  replied.  "  Better? 
Yea  ;  so  we  may  both  die,  and  little  Pearl  die  with  us  ! " 

"  For  thee  and  Pearl,  be  it  as  God  shall  order,"  said  the  minis- 
ter ;  "  and  God  is  merciful !  Let  me  now  do  the  will  which  He 
hath  made  plain  before  my  sight.  For,  Hester,  I  am  a  dying 
man.     So  let  me  make  haste  to  take  my  shame  upon  me  !  " 

Partly  supported  by  Hester  Prynne,  and  holding  one  hand  of 


md  misera- 
>  ago,  cotne 
ly  strength, 
ath  granted 
g  it  with  all 
me,  Hester, 

lignity,  who 
jo  taken  by 
hey  saw,  — 
^  I)resented 
I  silent  and 
ice  seemed 
an  Hester's 
)proach  the 
1  of  the  sin- 
th  followed, 
id  sorrow  in 
efore,  to  be 

he,  looking 
iccret,  —  no 
jscaped  me, 

iswered  the 

xpression  of 
trayed,  that 

dreamed  of 

,  "Better? 
It 

[  the  minis- 
1  which  He 
xm  a  dying 
ne  !  " 
me  hand  of 


NA  TllANIEL   HA  WTliORNE 


241 


little  Pearl's,  the  Reverend  Mr.  Dimmesdale  turned  to  the  dig- 
nified and  venerable  rulers ;  to  the  holy  ministers,  who  were  his 
brethren ;  to  the  people,  whose  great  heart  was  thoroughly 
appalled,  yet  overflowing  with  tearful  sympathy,  as  knowing  that 
some  deep  life-matter  —  which,  if  full  of  sin,  was  full  of  anguish 
and  repentance  likewise  —  was  now  to  be  laid  open  to  them. 
The  sun,  but  little  past  its  meridian,  shone  down  upon  the  clergy- 
man, and  gave  a  distinctness  to  his  figure,  as  he  stood  out  from  all 
the  earth,  to  put  in  his  plea  of  guilty  at  the  bar  of  Internal  Justice. 

"  People  of  New  England  !  "  cried  he,  with  a  voice  that  rose 
over  them,  high,  solemn,  and  majestic,  —  yet  had  always  a  tremor 
through  it,  and  sometimes  a  shriek,  struggling  up  out  of  a  fathom- 
less depth  of  remorse  and  woe,  —  "  ye,  that  have  loved  me  !  — ye, 
that  have  deemed  me  holy  !  —  behold  me  here,  the  one  sinner  of 
the  world!  At  last!  —  at  last!  —  1  stand  upon  the  spot  where, 
seven  years  since,  I  should  have  stood ;  here,  with  this  woman, 
whose  arm,  more  than  the  little  strength  wherewith  I  have  crept 
hithcrward,  sustains  me,  at  this  dreadful  moment,  from  grovelling 
down  upon  my  face  !  Lo,  the  scarlet  letter  which  Hester  wears  ! 
Ye  have  all  shuddered  at  it !  Wherever  her  walk  hath  been,  — 
wherever,  so  miserably  burdened,  she  may  have  hoped  to  find 
repose,  —  it  hath  cast  a  lurid  gleam  of  awe  and  horrible  repug- 
nance round  about  her.  But  there  stood  one  in  the  midst  of  you, 
at  whose  brand  of  sin  and  infamy  ye  have  not  shuddered  ! " 

It  seemed,  at  this  point,  as  if  the  minister  must  leave  the 
remainder  of  his  story  undisclosed.  But  he  fought  back  the 
bodily  weakness,  —  and,  still  more,  the  faintness  of  heart,  —  that 
was  striving  for  the  mastery  with  him.  He  threw  off  all  assist- 
ance, and  stepped  passionately  forward  a  pace  before  the  woman 
and  the  child. 

"  It  was  on  him  ! "  he  continued,  with  a  kind  of  fierceness ;  so 
determined  was  he  to  speak  out  the  whole.  "  God's  eye  beheld 
it  I  The  angels  were  forever  pointing  at  it !  The  Devil  knew  it 
well,  and  fretted  it  continually  with  the  touch  of  his  burning 
finger  !  But  he  hid  it  cunningly  from  men,  and  walked  among 
you  with  the  mien  of  a  spirit,  mournful,  because  so  pure  in  a  sinful 
world  !  —  and  sad,  because  he  missed  his  heavenly  kindred  ! 
Now,  at  the  death-hour,  he  stands  up  before  you  !     He  bids  you 

R 


242 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


look  again  at  Hester's  scarlet  letter !  He  tells  you,  that,  with  all 
its  mysterious  horror,  it  is  but  the  shadow  of  what  he  bears  on  his 
own  breast,  and  that  even  this,  his  own  red  stigma,  is  no  more 
than  the  type  of  what  has  seared  his  inmost  heart !  Stand  any 
here  that  question  Clod's  judgment  on  a  sinner  ?  Behold  !  Be- 
hold a  dreadful  witness  of  it !  " 

With  a  convulsive  motion,  he  tore  away  the  ministerial  band 
from  before  his  breast.  It  was  revealed  !  But  it  were  irreverent 
to  describe  that  revelation.  For  an  instant,  the  gaze  of  the 
horror-stricken  multitude  was  concentred  on  the  ghastly  miracle  ; 
while  the  minister  stood,  with  a  flush  of  triumph  in  his  face,  as 
one  who,  in  the  crisis  of  acutest  pain,  had  won  a  victory.  Then, 
down  he  sank  upon  the  scaffold  !  Hester  partly  raised  him,  and 
supported  his  head  against  her  bosom.  Old  Roger  Chillingworth 
knelt  down  beside  him,  with  a  blank,  dull  countenance,  out  of 
which  the  life  seemed  to  have  departed. 

"Thou  hast  escaped  me!"  he  repeated  more  than  once. 
"  Thou  hast  escaped  me  !  " 

"  May  God  forgive  thee  ! "  said  the  minister.  "  Thou,  too,  hast 
deeply  sinned  ! " 

He  withdrew  his  dying  eyes  from  the  old  man,  and  fixed  them 
on  the  woman  and  the  child. 

"  My  little  Pearl,"  said  he,  feebly,  —  and  there  was  a  sweet  and 
gentle  smile  over  his  face,  as  of  a  spirit  sinking  into  deep  repose ; 
nay,  now  that  the  burden  was  removed,  it  seemed  almost  as  if  he 
would  be  sportive  with  the  child,  — "  dear  litde  Pearl,  wilt  thou 
kiss  me  now  ?  Thou  wouldst  not,  yonder,  in  the  forest !  But 
now  thou  wilt?" 

Pearl  kissed  his  lips.  A  spell  was  broken.  The  great  scene  of 
grief,  in  which  the  wild  infant  bore  a  part,  had  developed  all  her 
sympathies ;  and  as  her  tears  fell  upon  her  father's  cheek,  they 
were  the  pledge  that  she  would  grow  up  amid  human  joy  and 
sorrow,  nor  forever  do  battle  with  the  world,  but  be  a  woman  in  it. 
Towards  her  mother,  too.  Pearl's  erra  id  as  a  messenger  of  anguish 
was  all  fulfilled. 

"  Hester,"  said  the  clergyman,  "  farewell !  " 

"Shall  we  not  meet  again?"  whispered  she,  bending  her  face 
down  close  to  his.     "Shall  we   not  spend  our    immortal    life 


..^-^■.■i-*-*i»—*«c  -.».•  ■*=«,.♦!•*  ai.V-»v*a9Ai» 


^,^&,M^amA^tSiii* 


NA  THAN  I  EL  HA  WTIIORXE 


243 


that,  with  all 

bears  011  his 

ib  no  more 

Stand  any 

ehold !     Be- 

isterial  band 
re  irreverent 
gaze  of  the 
istly  miracle ; 
his  face,  as 
tory.  Then, 
>ed  him,  and 
[Ihillingworth 
ance,  out  of 

than    once. 

lou,  too,  hast 

i  fixed  them 

a  sweet  and 
ieep  repose; 
tiost  as  if  he 
arl,  wilt  thou 
forest !     But 


together?  Surely,  surely,  we  have  ransomed  one  another,  with  all 
this  woe  !  Thou  lookest  far  into  eternity,  with  those  bright  dying 
eyes  !    Then  tell  me  what  thou  seest?  " 

"Hush,  Hester,  hush!"   said   he,  with   tremulous   solemnity. 
"  The  law  we  broke  !  —  the  sin  here  so  awfully  revealed  !  —  let 
these  alone  be  in  thy  thoughts  !     I  fear  !  I  fear !     It  may  be 
that,  when  we  forgot  our  God,  —  when  we  violated  our  reverence 
each  for  the  other's  soul,  —  it  was  thenceforth  vain  to  hope  thut 
we  could  meet  hereafter,  in  an  everlasting  and    pure   reunion. 
God  knows ;  and  he  is  merciful  !     He  hath  proved  his  mercy, 
most  of  all,  in  my  afflictions.     By  giving  me  this  burning  torture 
to  bear  upon  my  breast !     By  sending  yonder  dark  and  terrible 
old  man,  to  keep  the  torture  always  at  red-heat !     By  bringing  me 
hither,  to  die  this  death  of   triumphant  ignominy   before   the 
^  people !     Had  either  of  these  agonies  been  wanting,  I  had  been 
4  lost  forever !    Praised  be  his  name  !    His  will  be  done  !     Fare- 
well ! "  .       u       u 
That  final  word  came  forth  with  the  minister's  expinng  breath. 
The  multitude,  silent  till  then,  broke  out  in  a  strange,  deep  voice 
of  awe  and  wonder,  which  could  not  as  yet  find  utterance,  save  in 
vhis  murmur  that  rolled  so  heavily  aftetthe  departed  spirit, 

IThe  Scarlet  Letter,  a  Romance,  I'Sso,  Japter  23,  "The  Revelation  of 
the  Scai'et  Letter."    The  text  is  that  of  the  fi«t  edition.] 


•eat  scene  of 
loped  all  her 
i  cheek,  they 
man  joy  and 
woman  in  it. 
:er  of  anguish 


ling  her  face 
mmortal    life 


MR 


iiPi-iitMiii 


■aSBBOfe 


(^^ 


HENRY  VVADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW 

[Henry  Wailaworth  Longfellow  was  born  in  IJortland,  Me.,  Fel).  27,  1807, 
and  ilieil   in  Cauihridgo,  Mass.,  March  24,  i882.^Ie  came  of  cjjdtT Knglish 
stock,  and  could  trace  his  descent  on  one  sjtle  from  John  AI^airTwhose  wooing 
he  celebrated  in  his  Cctolshtp  of  Milt^i'^indi'^    lie  graduated  at  liowdoin 
College,  where  Hawthorne  was  his  classmate,Tn  1825,  and  spent  three  years 
in  France,  Spain,  Italy,  and  (lermany,  preparing  himself  for  the  duties  of  the 
professorship  of  modern  languages  at  Uowdoin.     He  held  this  chair  six  years, 
relincjuishing  it  when  he  was  appointed  to  succeed  Ticknor  as  Smith  professor 
of  modern  languages  at  Harvard  College.     In  preparation  for  his  new  and  more 
distinguished  duties  he  spent  another  year  abroad,  enlarging  his  ac(|uaintance/^^ 
with   the   Teutonic  languages.     He  occupied  the  Harvard  chair  from  rSjlMC '^M^ 
•"H'l   IHTI   ''v'"B  '"  "le  old  and  beautiful  Craigie  House,  and  breaking  the  ***''     ' 
steady  round  of  his  academic  duties  only  by  a  third  visit  to  Europe  >iC3i^.  , 

fThc  remainder  of  his  life  was  spent  in  Cambridge,  with  the  exception  of  a .  ' 

Tnal  visit,  in  l868><o  Europe,  where  he  ro^cived  the  degree  of  D.C.L.  from* 
Oxford,  and  that  of  L^L).  from  Cambrid^3  '''s  bust  has  been  placed  in  the 
Poets'  Corner  at  Westm^hster /^j|y/  Longfellow's  character  was  remarlybly 
serene,  sane,  and  well  balancflK  QlWms  an  urbane  man,  who  held  himself 
apart  from  jjterar^jfalousjjj^AJnlevoted  himself  com* '  tely  to  his  studies, 
his  art,  and  his  friends,Tlmoi^  whom-^re  many  dj .  .igu''ilii  i^^^^Mttili 
OfiK  His  country  should  be  granilui  to  hin^vTonlTTorTiHiSJaryproduc- 
tions,  but  for  his  long  and  earnest  studies  in  the  European  literatures,—  studies 
which,  as  a  teacher,  he  did  much  to  make  congenial  and  permanent  in 
American  universitie^ 

Longfellow's  prose  works  of  importance  are  three  in  number,  Outrc-Mer 
('833-34).  /lytfion  (1839),  and  A'avanagh  (1849).  The  first  two  are  based 
on  his  early  experiences  in  foreign  travel,  and  reveal  his  delight  in  the  study 
of  foreign  literatures;  but  they  also  reflect  the  tastes  and  tendencies  of  his 
generation,  and  express  a  mood  or  stage  in  our  national  life  and  literature,] 

Prose,  at  its  best,  differs  from  poetry  in  form  rather  than  in 
spirit.  Verse  and  prose  fiction  certainly  are  closely  related 
divisions  of  literary  art,  and  it  ivould  be  no  impossible  task  to 
transmute  the  one  into  the  other.  If  the  idea  of  the  correlation 
and  conservation  of  forces  marks  the  principal  advance  of  science 
in  the  nineteenth  century,  it  is  of  similar  importance  that  literary 

244 


■■i 


-LOW 


27.  «8o7, 
JU<*<t'  Kiiglish 

hose  wooing 

at  Uowdoin 
t  three  years 
duties  of  the 
air  six  years, 
lith  professor 
lew  and  more 
ac(|uaintance 
ir  from 
breaking  the 

pewai^. 
xception  of  a . 
D.C.L.  from* 
placed  in  the 
s  remarkably 
held  himself 

his  studies, 


more 

r  the   '■i' 


n 


Sry  produc- 
es, —  studies 
ermanent  in 

,  Oulrc-Mer 
vo  are  based 
in  the  study 
ncies  of  his 
terature.] 

;r  than  in 
ly  related 
e  task  to 
orrelation 
of  science 
at  literary 


<- 


///;.\-|\'r    lyADSiyOAT//  LONGFlil.l.OlV 


24s 


criticism  lias  iliscovercd  or  rciiiscovered,  within  the  same  i)eriod, 
the  relativity  and  transimitability  of  jjenius.  Ivanhoc  might  have 
been  written  in  the  four-beat  measure  of  Mannion,  and  Tltf  Laily 
0/  the  Lake  might  have  been  made  to  take  its  place  beside  The 
Bride  of  Lammennoor.  More  obvious  examples  of  the  novel  in 
verse  are  Evaiif^eline,  or  the  rapidly  moving  Aurora  Lei^h,  and 
Lucile;  while  we  have  but  to  set  side  by  side  the  best  tales  and 
the  most  characteristic  poems  of  Poe,  or  the  prose  paragraphs 
and  the  metrical  proverbs  of  lunerson,  to  perceive  the  compara- 
tive unimportance  of  the  choice  of  the  vehicle  of  expression. 

It  was  natural,  then,  that  Longfellow,  the  Mendelssohn  of  Amer- 
ican literature,  should  show  in  his  prose-writings  the  tendencies 
characterizing  his  verse,  especially  as  the  former  appeared  in  the 
earlier  part  of  his  life  and  literary  career,  when  his  mind  and  genius 
were  most  deeply  touched  by  the  time-spirit  of  sentimental  roman- 
ticism. The  United  States,  in  Longfellow's  early  maniiood,  was 
astir  with  the  enthusiasms  of  youth,  and  not  unaffected  by  the 
irregular  passions  and  imperfect  aspirations  of  juvenility.  Studious 
and  even  intellectual  in  a  way,  it  was  sadly  in  need  of  the  benign 
influences  of  culture  ;  and  culture  was  not  to  be  had  without  some 
sincere  search.  Social  and  literary  provinciality  were  made  mani- 
fest by  undue  self-assertion  on  the  one  hand,  and  by  humble  def- 
erence to  foreign  opinion  on  the  other.  But  foreign  opinion  very 
naturally  meant,  in  New  England,  Knglish  opinion  of  the  conven- 
tional or  academic  order,  while  outside  of  New  England,  in  the 
Jeffersonian  portions  of  the  new  republic,  it  was  too  generally 
synonymous  with  the  excited  and  irregular  pronouncements  of 
French  radicalism  or  the  "  Napoleonic  idea." 

In  these  complex  circumstances  the  influence  of  the  gentle 
calmness  of  an  Irving  and  the  cool  austerity  of  a  Bryant  were 
clearly  salutary ;  but  neither  of  these  —  our  earliest  authors  in  the 
true  sense  —  was  able  to  do  for  a  large  public,  in  a  notable  time, 
exactly  what  Longfellow  accomplished.  Longfellow's  mind  was 
always  peculiarly  susceptible  to  influences  from  without ;  the 
vicious  injustice  of  Poe's  title,  Mr.  Lons^ellow  and  Other  Pla- 
giarists, contained  an  element  of  truth.  A  plagiarist  he  certainly 
was  not ;  an  unconscious  imitator  at  times  he  was ;  while  more 
than  once  he  was  the  disciple  in  presence  of  the  master.    His 


P 


t-iiiVT  TTii 


■MIMi 


3S 


246 


AMENICAX  I'KOSE 


]>ri)se  style  wns  not  iinafftH  tid  by  that  of  the  author  of  the  Sketch- 
Hook  ;  sonif  of  his  contributions  to  the  volume  of  AtiuMitit'cus 
Poems  fioin  llu  L  'iiited  Slates  Literary  Gazette  closely  resciubleil 
tile  work,  in  the  same  pages,  of  the  writer  of  77ia>iatof<sis ;  still 
later  not  only  l.ie  sjjirit  but  the  metrical  forms  of  Heine  rea|)i)eared 
in  many  a  lyric  of  the  heart,  sung  by  the  banks  of  Charles ;  the 
trodiaic  tetrameter  of  lliiwatha  was  an  adaptation;  and  last  of 
all  the  great  Florentine  less  obviously,  but  not  less  truly,  dominated 
the  thought  and  style  of  his  translator. 

Hut  if  the  foreign  sketciies  entitled  OutreAfer,  the  entire  rf»- 
mance  of  J/yffnoii,  and  even  the  more  distinctly  New  Kngland 
story  oi  KaViinai;h,  show  little  originality,  our  debt  to  them  remains- 
deep  and  lasting.  It  was  because  I.ongfelknv  was  so  fiuickly  recep- 
tive tii.it  he  caught  so  much  of  tiie  sweetness  of  rural  France,  the 
faded  grandeur  of  the  Castilian  country,  the  secret  of  the  time  of 
troubadour  or  minnesinger,  and,  alwve  all,  the  perennial  fascina- 
tion of  mediaeval  Ciermany.  As  an  American  he  well  knew  and 
fully  shared  the  aspirations  of  his  own  people  ;  as  a  citizen  of  the 
world  he  gathered  up  and  brought  home  rich  spoils  from  foreign 

ids,  to  be  utili/i(l  in  the  western  states  in  a  day  when  intelligent 
^.lulance  w.as  peculiarly  necessary.  No  other  did,  or  could  do,  so 
much  in  this  line  of  salutary  effort.  The  prevalent  sentimentality  ^ 
of  the  time,  Longftliow  raised  into  sentiment ;  his  panorama  of 
European  life  was  set  before  .American  eyes  in  a  suggestive,  as 
well  as  pleasing,  iiiannei  ,  while,  in  Ins  chief  prose  work,  ffyperion, 
he  caught  and  kept  and  made  immediately  serviceable  the  very 
moonshine  and  mystery  of  transcenilcntal  romance.  The  chapter 
near  the  close  of  the  work,  entitled  Footprints  0/  Angels,  is  written 
in  a  style  which  seems  as  far  removed  from  current  literary  fash- 
ions as  the  steel- engraved  "embellishments"  of  the  Philadelphia 
magazines  of  the  forties  are  removed  from  an  etching  by  Whistler. 
But  such  a  t  liapter  did  more  than  make  the  impressionable  youths 
of  the  period  write  '■  how  be  .utiful"  upon  the  margin  of  the  be- 
loved volume ;  it  induced  them  to  transmute  feeling  into  action 
and  vague  sentiment  into  purposeful  endeavor.  The  difference 
between  1839  and  1870  is  merely  the  difference  between  the  mor- 
tuary inscription  which  Longfellow  made  the  heart  of  this  chapter 
and  the  text  of  the  whole  romance,  and  the  brisk  Saxon  motto 


»'V  t» -'-a^^aiJ.s  i.^i;iiiJii;:^:i4iti^«ls^?i:j;i..4 


«■■ 


the  Sketch- 
isce/Aitiecus 
'  resciiibled 
tof'sis  ;  still 
rcai)i)eared 
harles ;  the 
and  Inst  of 
duiniiiated 

entire  ro- 
w  Kngland 
L'ln  remains  ~ 
ckly  recep- 
Krance,  the 
;he  time  of 
la!  fascina- 

knew  and 
izen  of  the 
om  foreign 

intelligent 
3uld  do,  so 
timcntality  ^ 
inorama  of 
jgestive,  as 
,  Hyperion, 
e  the  very 
he  chapter 
■,  is  written 
erary  fash- 
Kiladelphia 
y  Whistler, 
ible  youths 
of  the  be- 
nto  action 

difference 
1  the  mor- 
lis  chapter 
icon  motto 


J/ENKY   lyADStyu/iT/J  LONCtELl.OW 


247 


which,  thirty  years  after,  Mdward  ICverelt  Hale  wrote  as  the  prac- 
tical creeil  of  Ten  Times  One  Cliihi  or  Look-up  Lii^ions.  The 
words  are  very  different  ,  tlu-  purpose  is  one. 

One  must  isk,  however,  in  ihc  ( use  of  any  work  of  art,  whether 
u.i  form  and  inherent  value  have  outlasted  the  time  of  product  .jn. 
Utility  is  good,  l.ut  it  does  not  ni  'ke  literature.  Is  Longfellow's 
prose  t»  be  remanded  to  the  shelf  of  the  collection  of  bibliograi)lii- 
cal  varieties,  along  with  the  French  and  Spanish  text-books  which 
he  so  painstakingly  prepared  for  the  crude  colli-giaiis  of  our  essen- 
tially provinci.d  little  seminaries  of  the  early  day  f  Dn/twooil  was 
the  title  prefixed  by  him  to  his  fugitive  essays  in  prose ;  the  very 
title  of  Oiilre-Mcr  has  been  used  again  for  the  benefit  of  a  gen- 
eration of  readers  that  knows  not  Joseph  ;  antl  few  indc  1  will 
aRree  with  Emerson  —  here,  as  usually,  an  untrustworthy  cntic  of 
lunited  view  — that  Kavaihti^h  was,  even  in  1849,  the  best  sketch 
in  the  direction  of  the  American  novel.  But  if  the  Concord  sage, 
with  many  anothf ;  reader,  was  surprised  to  find  himself  "  cluiMued 
with  elegance  in  an  American  book,"  it  was  because  "elegamc" 
was  really  presort  even  in  parts  of  Kavaiiagh,  as  it  was  certainly 
present  in  Outre-Mer  and  Hyperion.  And  elegance,  after  all,  is 
not  a  thing  to  be  banished  from  belles-lettres. 

Chari.ks  F.  Richardson 


:ferf7^aaait\w«fc-.-v'»CTaiN*wi»tjgiy- 


Sfr-- 


«M>M«I 


34H 


AMKhJC.lX  I'h'OSK 


KOOITKINTS  OK   ANCI  l,S 

Ir  was  Sunilay  mnrniug  ;  and  llic  diiirdi  bolls  were  .ill  ringing 
together.  Fr<>ni  tlie  mighl)t)riiig  villages  came  the  solemn,  joyful 
soiimls,  floating  tiinmgl)  ihc  MHiny  air,  mellow  and  I'unt  and  low, 

;il|  mingling  into  one  harmonious  ('hin\c,  like  the  sound  ol  io^m- 

distant  organ  in  heaven.  Anon  they  ceased ;  and  the  woods,  and 
the  clouds,  and  the  whole  village,  and  the  very  air  itself  seemed  tt) 
pray,  —  so  silent  was  it  everywhere. 

Two  venerable  old  men,  — high-priests  and  i)atriarchs  were 
they  in  the  land, —  went  np  the  pulpit  stairs,  as  Moses  and  Aaron 
went  up  Mount  Ilor,  in  the  sight  of  all  the  congregation,  for 
the  puljiit  stairs  were  in  front,  and  very  high. 

Paul  Klemming  will  never  forget  the  sermon  he  heard  that  day, 
—  no,  not  even  if  he  should  live  to  be  as  old  as  he  who  preached 
it.  I'he  text  was,  "  I  know  that  niy  Redeemer  liveth."  It  wa.s 
meant  to  <:onsole  the  pious,  jwor  widow,  who  sat  right  below  him 
at  the  foot  of  the  puli)it  stairs,  all  in  black,  and  her  heart  breaking. 
He  said  nothing  of  the  terrors  of  death,  nor  of  the  gloom  of  the 
narrow  house,  but,  looking  beyond  these  things,  as  mere  circum- 
stances to  which  the  imagination  mainly  gives  importance,  he  told 
his  hearers  o.'  fi  e  innocence  of  childhood  upon  earth,  ami  the 
holiness  of  childhood  in  heaven,  and  how  the  beautiful  Lord  Jesus 
was  once  a  little  child,  and  now  in  heaven  the  spirits  of  little 
children  walked  with  him,  ami  gathered  (lowers  in  the  fields  of 
Paradise,  (iood  old  mm  !  In  behalf  of  humanity,  I  thank  thee 
for  these  benignant  words  !  And  still  more  than  I,  the  bereaved 
mother  thanked  thee,  and  from  that  hour,  though  she  wept  in 
secret  for  her  child,  yet 

".She  knew  he  was  with  Jesus, 
And  she  asked  him  ni)t  again." 

After  the  sermon,  Paul  Flemming  walked  forth  alone  into  the 
churchyard.  There  was  no  one  there,  save  a  little  boy,  who  was 
fishing  with  a  pin  ho  -k  in  a  grave  half  full  of  water.  But  a  few 
moments  aftcrwar.l,  through  the  arched  gateway  under  the  belfry, 
came  a  funeral  procession.     At  its  head  walked  a  priest  in  white 


^ 


IlENKY   WADSlVOKT/l  l.ONOFKU.OW 


249 


■re  all  ringing 
iolenin,  joyful 
imt  ;in<i  low, 
onn<l  ol  Mvwv 
le  woods,  an<! 
elf  seemed  to 

triarchs  were 
les  and  Aaron 
.'gation,      for 

L;ard  that  day, 
who  preached 
eth."  It  was 
{ht  below  him 
eart  breaking. 
;  gloom  of  the 
mere  circum- 
tance,  he  told 
arth,  and  the 
ful  Lord  Jesus 
ipirits  of  little 
11  the  fields  of 
,  I  thank  thee 
,  the  bereaved 
\  she  wept  in 


alone  into  the 
boy,  who  was 
er.  But  a  few 
der  the  belfry, 
priest  in  white 


surplice,  chanting.  Peasants,  olil  and  young,  followed  him,  with 
burniuK  tapers  in  their  hands.  A  young  girl  carried  in  her  arms  a 
dead  child,  wrapped  in  its  little  wimling  sheet.  The  grave  w.is 
close  under  the  wall,  by  the  church  door.  A  vase  jf  holy  water 
st(X)d  beside  it.  The  sexton  took  the  child  from  the  girl's  arms, 
anil  put  it  into  a  cotVin  ;  and,  as  he  placed  it  in  the  grave,  the 
girl  held  over  it  a  cross,  wrcatlied  with  roses,  and  the  i)riest  and 
peasants  sang  a  funeral  hymn.  When  this  was  over,  the  priest 
sprinkled  the  grave  and  the  crowd  with  holy  water;  and  then  they 
all  went  into  the  church,  each  one  stopping  as  he  passed  the 
gr.ave  to  throw  a  handful  of  earth  into  it,  and  sprinkle  it  with  holy 
water. 

A  few  moments  afterwards,  the  voice  of  the  priest  was  heard 
saying  mass  in  the  church,  and  Flemming  saw  the  toothless  old 
sexton,  treading  the  fresh  earth  into  the  grave  of  the  little  chikl, 
with  his  clouted  slioes.  He  approached  him,  and  asked  the  age 
of  the  deceased.  The  sexton  leaned  a  moment  on  his  sjjade,  and 
shrugging  his  shoulders  replied  ; 

"  Only  an  hour  or  two.  It  was  born  in  the  night,  and  died  this 
morning  early." 

"  A  brief  existence,"  said  Flemming.  "  The  child  seems  to  have 
been  born  only  to  be  buried,  and  have  its  name  recorded  on  a 
wooden  tombstone." 

The  sexton  went  on  with  his  work,  and  made  no  reply.  Flem- 
ming still  lingered  among  the  graves,  gazing  with  wonder  at  the 
strange  devices,  by  which  man  has  rendered  death  horrible  and  the 
grave  loathsome. 

In  the  temple  of  Juno  at  Elis,  Sleep  and  his  twin-brother  Death 
were  represented  as  children  reposing  in  the  arms  of  Night.  On 
various  funeral  monuments  of  the  ancients  the  (ienius  of  Death  is 
sculptured  as  a  beautiful  youth,  leaning  on  an  inverteil  torch,  in 
the  attitude  of  repose,  his  wings  fokled  and  his  feet  crossed.  In 
such  peaceful  and  attractive  forms,  did  the  imagination  of  ancient 
poets  and  sculptors  represent  death.  And  these  were  men  in  whose 
souls  the  religion  of  Nature  was  like  the  light  of  stars,  beautiful,  but 
faint  and  cold  !  Strange,  that  in  later  days,  this  angel  of  Clod, 
which  leads  us  with  a  gentle  hand,  into  the  "  land  of  the  great 
departed,  into  the  silent  land,"  should  have  been  transformed  into 


It, 
If 


wmem 


WL. 


7^ 


250 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


y  ' 


i  : 


a  monstrous  and  terrific  thing  !  Such  is  the  spectral  rider  on  the 
white  horse  ;  —  such  the  ghastly  skeleton  with  scythe  and  hcur-glass, 
—  the  Reaper,  whose  name  is  Death  ! 

One  of  the  most  popular  themes  of  poetry  and  painting  in  the 
Middle  Ages,  and  continuing  down  even  into  modern  times,  was 
the  Dance  of  Der.th.  In  almost  all  languages  is  it  written,  —  the 
apparition  of  the  grim  spectre,  nutting  a  sudden  stop  to  all  busi- 
ness, and  leading  men  away  into  the  "  remarkable  retirement  "  of 
the  grave.  It  is  written  in  an  ancient  Spanish  poem,  and  painted 
on  a  wooden  bridge  in  Switzerland.  The  designs  of  Holbein  are 
well  known.  The  most  striking  among  them  is  that,  where,  from 
a  group  of  children  sitting  round  a  cottage  hearth.  Death  has  taken 
one  by  the  hand,  and  is  leading  it  out  of  the  door.  Quietly  and 
unresisting  goes  the  little  child,  and  in  its  countenance  no  grief, 
but  wonder  only  ;  while  the  other  children  are  weeping  and  stretch- 
ing forth  their  hands  in  vain  towards  their  departing  brother.  A 
beautiful  design  it  is,  in  all  save  the  skeleton.  An  angel  had  been 
better,  with  folded  wings,  and  torch  inverted  ! 

And  now  the  sun  was  growing  high  and  warm.  A  little  chapel, 
whose  door  stood  open,  seemed  to  invite  Flemming  to  enter  and 
enjoy  the  grateful  coolness.  He  went  in.  There  was  no  one  there. 
The  walls  were  covered  with  paintings  and  sculpture  of  the  rudest 
kind,  and  with  a  few  funeral  tablets.  There  was  nothing  there  to 
move  the  heart  to  devotion  ;  but  in  that  hour  the  heart  of  Flem- 
ming was  weak,  —  weak  as  a  child's.  He  bowed  his  stubborn  knees, 
and  wept.  And  oh  !  how  many  disappointed  hopes,  how  many  bitter 
recollections,  how  much  of  wounded  pride  and  unrequited  love, 
were  in  those  tears,  through  which  he  read  on  a  marble  tablet  in 
the  chapel  wall  opposite,  this  singular  inscription ; 

"  L,ook  not  mournfully  into  the  Past.  It  comes  not  back  again. 
Wisely  improve  the  Present.  It  is  thine.  Go  forth  to  meet  the 
shadowy  F'uture,  without  fear,  and  with  a  manly  heart." 

It  seemed  to  him,  as  if  the  unknown  tenant  of  that  grave  had 
opened  his  lips  of  dust,  and  spoken  to  him  the  words  of  consola- 
tion, which  his  soul  needed,  and  which  no  friend  had  yet  spoken. 
In  a  moment  the  anguish  of  his.  thoughts  was  still.  The  stone  was 
rolled  away  from  tlie  door  of  his  heart ;  death  was  no  longer  there, 
but  an  angel  clothed  in  white.     He  stood  up,  and  his  eyes  were  no 


*-;jBei«fff  r-i>^Ma>iaairtKfife  „ 


rider  on  the 
id  hour-glass, 

linting  in  the 
rn  times,  was 
iritten,  —  the 
ip  to  all  busi- 
tirement "  of 
,  and  painted 
■  Holbein  are 
,  where,  from 
;ath  has  taken 
Quietly  and 
ince  no  grief, 
y  and  stretch- 
;  brother.  A 
igel  had  been 

^  little  chapel, 
;  to  enter  and 

no  one  there. 

of  the  rudest 
thing  there  to 
leart  of  Flem- 
;ubborn  knees, 
3w  many  bitter 
irequited  love, 
arble  tablet  in 

lot  back  again, 
th  to  meet  the 
rt." 

that  grave  had 
rds  of  consola- 
id  yet  spoken. 
The  stone  was 
0  longer  there, 
is  eyes  were  no 


HENRY   WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW 


251 


more  bleared  with  tears ;   and,  looking  into  the  bright  morning 
heaven,  he  said  ; 

"  I  will  be  strong  !  " 

Men  sometimes  go  down  into  tombs,  with  painful  longmgs  to 
behold  once  more  the  faces  of  their  departed  friends;  and  as 
they  gaze  upon  them,  lying  there  so  peacefully  with  the  semblance, 
that  they  wore  on  earth,  the  sweet  br«;atli  of  heaveu  touches  them, 
arid  the  features  crumble  and  fall  together,  and  are  but  dust.  So 
did  his  soul  then  descend  for  the  last  time  into  the  great  tomb  of 
the  Past,  with  painful  longings  to  behold  once  more  the  dear  faces 
of  those  he  liad  loved ;  and  the  sweet  breath  of  heaven  touched 
them,  and  they  would  not  stay,  but  crumbled  away  and  perished 
as  he  gazed.  They,  too,  were  dust.  And  thus,  far-sounding,  he 
heard  the  great  gate  of  the  Past  shut  behind  him  as  the  Divine 
Poet  did  the  gate  of  Paradise,  when  the  angel  pointed  him  the 
way  up  the  Holy  Mountain ;  and  to  him  likewise  was  it  forbidden 

to  look  back. 

In  the  Ufe  of  every  man,  there  are  sudden  transitions  of  feeling, 
which  seem  almost  miraculous.     At  once,  as  if  some  magician  had 
touched  the  heavens  and  the  earth,  the  dark  clouds  melt  into  the 
air,  the  wind  falls,  and  serenity  succeeds  the  storm.     The  causes 
which  produce  these  sudden  changes  may  have  been  long  at  work 
within   us,  but  the   changes  themselves  are   instantaneous,  and 
apparently  without  sufficient  cause.     It  was  so  with   Flemming ; 
and  from  that  hour  forth  he  resolved,  that  he  would  no  longer 
veer  with  every  shifting  wind  of  circumstance  ;  no  longer  be  a 
child's  plaything  in  the  hands  of  Fate,  which  we  ourselves  do 
make  or  mar.     He  resolved  henceforward  not  to  lean  on  others  ; 
but  to  walk  self-confident  and  self-possessed  ;  no  longer  to  waste 
his  years  in  vain  regrets,  nor  wait  the  fulfilment  of  boundless 
hopes  and  indiscreet  desires ;  but  to  live  in  the  Present  wisely, 
alike  forgetful  of  the  Past,  and  careless  of  what  the  mysterious 
Future  might  bring.     And  from  that  moment  he  was  calm  and 
strong  ;  he  was  reconciled  with  himself !     His  thoughts  turned  to 
his  distant  home  beyond  the  sea.     An  indescribable,  sweet  feeling 

rose  within  him.  •  4  1       «      1 

"Thither  will  I  turn  my  wandering  footsteps,"  said  he;      and 

be  a  man  among  men,  and  no  longer  a  dreamer  among  shadows. 


-■■■■  4SSfe-vr.'-^..«. 


«i»iwi>;«ii»HfiBiii)Hii'i>' iiii5iii.il  III 


■ri 


252 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


i 


\ 


w 


f  1 

r  I 

\   3 


w 


Henceforth  be  mine  a  life  of  action  and  reality  1  I  will  work  in 
my  own  sphere,  nor  wish  it  other  than  it  is.  This  alone  is  health 
and  happiness.      This  alone  is  life  ; 

'  Life  that  shall  send 
A  chr.ilenge  to  its  end, 
And  wlien  it  comes,  say.  Welcome,  friend ! ' 

Why  have  I  not  made  these  sage  reflections,  this  wise  resolve, 
sooner?  Can  such  a  simple  result  spring  only  from  the  long  and 
intricate  process  of  experience?  Alas!  it  is  not  till  Time,  with 
reckless  hand,  has  torn  out  ha'.f  the  leaves  from  the  Book  of 
Human  I.ife,  to  light  the  fires  of  passion  with,  from  day  to  day, 
that  Man  begins  to  see  that  the  leaves  which  r'^main  are  few  in 
number,  and  to  remember,  faintly  at  first,  and  then  more  clearly, 
that,  upon  the  earlier  pages  of  that  book,  was  written  a  story  of 
happy  innocence,  which  he  would  fain  read  over  again.  Then 
come  listless  irresolution  and  the  inevitable  inaction  of  despair ; 
or  else  the  firm  resolve  to  record  upon  the  leaves  that  still  remain, 
a  more  noble  history,  than  ',he  child's  story,  with  which  the  book 
began." 

[From  Hyperion,  a  Romance,  1839,  cl.  ipter  8.  The  text  is  that  of  the 
first  ediiion.] 

THE   VALLEY  OF  THE   LOIRE 

Je  ne  con^ois  qu'une  maniere  de  voyager  plus  agreable  que  d'aller  h  cheval ; 
c'est  d'aller  ^  pied.  On  part  \  son  moment,  on  s'arrSte  Jl  sa  volonte,  on  fait 
tan',  it  si  peu  d'exercise  qu'on  veut. 

Quand  on  ne  veut  qu'arriver,  on  peut  courir  en  chaise  de  poste;  mais  quand 

on  veut  voyager,  il  faut  aller  h  pied. 

Rousseau 

In  the  beautiful  month  of  Octobe;  I  made  a  foot  excursion 
along  the  banks  of  the  Loire,  from  Orleans  to  Tours.  This  luxu- 
riant region  is  justly  called  the  garden  of  France.  From  Orleans 
to  Blois,  the  whole  valley  of  the  Loire  is  one  continued  vineyard. 
The  b-ight  green  foliage  of  the  vine  spreads,  like  the  undulations 
of  the  sea,  over  dl  the  landscape,  with  here  and  there  a  silver 
flash  of  the  river,  a  sequestered  hamlet,  or  the  towers  of  an  old 
chateau,  'o  erliven  and  variegate  the  scene. 


II 


^:siS^t^-^',ti^^^s^^ia^eiaa^»-f^  :0^fm^v^^fimm' 


will  work  in 
ine  is  health 


wise  resolve, 
he  long  and 
1  Time,  with 
the  Book  of 
day  to  day, 
in  are  few  in 
more  clearly, 
en  a  story  of 
igain.  Then 
»  of  despair ; 
t  still  remain, 
ich  the  book 

t  is  that  of  the 


d'aller  hcheval; 
volonte,  on  fait 

ste;  mais  quand 
Rousseau 

oot  excursion 
g.  This  luxu- 
From  Orleans 
lued  vineyard, 
e  undulations 
there  a  silver 
ers  of  an  old 


HENRY    VVADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW 


253 


The  vintage  had  already  commenced.  The  peasantry  were 
busy  in  the  fields,  —  the  song  that  cheered  their  labor  was  on  the 
breeze,  and  the  heavy  wagon  tottered  by,  laden  with  the  clusters 
of  the  vine.  Everything  around  me  wore  that  happy  look  which 
makes  the  heart  glail.  In  the  morning  I  arose  with  the  lark  ;  and 
at  night  I  slept  where  sunset  overtook  me.  Tlie  healthy  exercise 
of  foot-travelling,  tlie  pure,  bracing  air  of  autumn,  and  the  cheer- 
ful asi)ect  of  the  whole  landscape  about  me,  gave  fresh  elasticity 
to  a  mind  not  overburdened  witli  care,  and  made  me  forget  not 
only  the  fatigue  of  walking,  but  also  the  consciousness  of  being 

alone. 

My  fir't  day's  journey  brought  uic  at  evening  to  a  village,  whose 
name  I  have  forgotten,  situated  about  eight  leagues  froui  Orleans. 
It  is  a  small,  obscure  hamlet,  not  mentioned  in  the  guide-book, 
and  stains  upon  the  precipitous  banks  of  a  deep  ravine,  through 
which  a  ^oisy  brook  leaps  down  to  turn  the  ponderous  wheel  of  a 
thatch-roofed  mill.  The  village  inn  stands  upon  the  highway ; 
but  the  village  itself  is  not  visible  to  the  traveller  as  he  passes.  It 
is  completely  hidden  in  the  lap  of  a  wooded  valley,  and  so  em- 
bowered in  trees  that  not  a  roof  nor  a  chimney  neeps  out  to  betray 
its  hiding-place.  It  is  like  the  nest  of  a  ground-swallow,  which 
the  passing  footstep  almost  treads  upon,  and  yet  it  is  not  seen.  I 
passed  by  without  suspecting  that  a  village  was  near;  and  the 
little  inn  had  a  look  so  uninviting  that  I  did  not  oven  enter  it. 

After  proceeding  a  mile  or  two  farther,  I  perceived,  upon  my 
left,  a  village  spire  rising  over  the  vineyards.  Towards  this  I 
directed  my  footsteps ;  but  it  seemed  to  recede  as  I  advanced, 
and  at  last  quite  disappeared.  It  was  evidently  many  miles  dis- 
tant; and  as  the  path  I  followed  descended  from  the  highway,  it 
had  gradually  sunk  beneath  a  swell  of  the  vine-clad  landscape.  I 
now  found  myself  in  the  midst  of  an  extensive  vineyard.  It  was 
just  sunset ;  and  the  last  golden  rays  lingered  on  the  rich  and  mel- 
low scenery  around  me.  The  peasantry  were  still  busy  at  their 
task ;  and  the  occasional  bark  of  a  dog,  and  the  distant  sound  of 
an  evening  bell,  gave  fresh  romance  to  the  scene.  The  reality  of 
many  a  day-dream  of  childhood,  of  many  a  poetic  revery  of  youth, 
was  before  me.  I  stood  at  sunset  amid  the  luxuriant  vineyards  of 
France  ! 


t«Wi«v-^v^W^.^;««ii«KAe4BSf'f^^^^j| 


-  ^— «  II  iiw—wuiiimiiuimwuiailnSiaa 


im-TrtiT 


Wil' 


vsmM 


f  t 

f  2 


il 

II 

^  f 


t   .1 


254 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


The  first  person  I  met  was  a  poor  old  woman,  a  little  bowed 
down  with  age,  gathering  grapes  into  a  large  basket.  She  was 
dressed  like  the  poorest  class  of  peasantry,  and  pursued  h^r  soli- 
tary task  alone,  heedless  of  the  cheerful  gossip  and  the  merry  laugh 
which  came  from  a  band  of  more  youthful  vintagers  at  a  short  dis- 
UUU  |i  from  her.  She  was  so  intently  engaged  in  her  work,  tliat 
she  i\\d  not  perceive  my  approach  until  I  bade  her  good  evening. 
On  hearing  my  voice,  she  looked  up  from  her  labor,  and  returned 
l\^e  srtlmsUlon ;  and,  on  my  asking  her  if  there  were  a  tavern  or  a 
frtVin-house  in  the  neighborhood  wlicre  I  could  pass  the  night,  she 
showed  u\i'  the  pathway  through  the  vineyard  that  led  to  the  vil- 
lage; ^t^ii  then  adtled,  with  a  look  of  curiosity,  — 

"You  must  be  a  stranger,  Sir,  in  these  parts." 

"  Yes  ;  my  honu:  U  very  far  from  here." 

"How  far?" 

"  More  than  a  lhoUs;\hd  leagues." 

The  old  woman  looked  incredulous. 

"  I  caille  JVcnt\  rt  distant  land  beyond  the  sea." 

"  More  than  a  thousand  leagues  !  "  at  length  repeated  she  ;  "  and 
why  \iave  you  cu.uu'  so  far  from  home  ?  " 

"  To  travel  i  — \o  see  how  you  live  in  this  country." 

"  Have  you  no  relations  in  your  own?" 

"  Yes  ;  I  ha\o  lioth  brothers  and  sisters,  a  father  and  —  " 

"AndanuUher?" 

"Thank  Heaven,  I  have." 

"And  did  you  leave  her?  " 

Here  Ihe  old  woman  gave  me  a  piercing  look  of  reproof; 
shook  her  head  mournfully,  and,  with  a  deep  sigh,  as  if  some  painful 
recollections  had  been  awakened  in  her  bosom,  turned  again  to  her 
solitary  task.  1  felt  rebuked  ;  for  there  is  something  almost  pro- 
phetic in  the  admonitions  of  the  old.  The  eye  of  age  looks 
meekly  into  my  heart !  the  voice  of  age  echoes  mournfully  through 
it !  the  hoary  head  and  ])alsied  hand  of  age  plead  irresistibly  for  its 
sympathies!  I  venerate  old  age;  and  I  love  not  the  man  who 
can  look  without  emotion  upon  tlie  sunset  of  life,  when  the  dusk 
of  evening  begins  to  gather  over  the  watery  eye,  and  the  shadows 
of  twilight  grow  broader  and  deejjer  upon  the  understanding  ! 
I  pursued  the  pathway  which  led  towards  the  v.llagc,  and  the 


J| 


u. 


,«.•,^^«««f»^^ 


little  bowed 
et.  She  was 
iued  bsr  soli- 
;  merry  laugh 
,t  a  short  tlis- 
er  work,  tliat 
ood  evening, 
and  returned 
a  tavern  or  a 
he  night,  she 
ed  to  the  vil- 


h1  she  ;  "  and 


id  —  " 


of  reproof; 
f  some  painful 
i  again  to  her 
y  almost  pro- 
of age  looks 
nfuUy  through 
'sistibly  for  its 
the  man  who 
hen  the  dusk 
1  the  shadows 
standing  ! 
ilagc,  and  the 


HENRY   IVADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW 


255 


.*^i<imiH*im0s:i 


next  person  I  encountered  was  an  old  man,  stretched  lazily  be- 
neath the  vines  upon  a  litUc  strip  of  turf,  at  a  point  where  four 
paths  met,  forming  a  crossvay  in  the  vineyard.     He  was  clad  in  a 
coarse  garb  of  gray,  with  a  pair  of  long  gaiters  or  spatterdashes. 
Beside  him  lay  a  blue  cloth  cap,  a  staff,  and  an  old  weather-beaten 
knapsack.     I  saw  at  once  that  he  was  a  foot-traveller  like  myself, 
and  therefore,  without  more  ado,  entere-    into  conversation  with 
him.     From  his  language,  and  the  peculiar  manner  in  which  he 
now  and  then  wiped  his  upper  lip  with  the  back  of  his  hand,  as  if 
in  searcli  of  the  mustache  which  was  no  longer  there,  I  judged 
that  he  had  been  a  soldier.     In  this  opinion  I  was  not  mistaken. 
He  had  served  under  Napoleon,  and  had  followed  the  imperial 
eagle  across  the  Alps,  and  the  Pyrenees,  and  the  burning  sands  of 
Egypt.     Like  every  vieille  moustache,  he  spake  with  enthusiasm 
of  the  Little  Corporal,  and  cursed  the  English,  the  Germans,  the 
Spanish,  and  every  other  race  on  earth,  except  the  Great  Nation, 
—  his  own. 

"  I  like,"  said  he,  "  after  a  long  day's  march,  to  lie  down  in  this 
way  upon' the  grass,  and  enjoy  the  cool  of  the  evening.  It  reminds 
me  of  the  bivouacs  of  other  days,  and  of  old  friends  who  are  now 

up  there." 

Here  he  pointed  with  his  finger  to  tlie  sky. 

"  They  have  reached  the  last  ctape  before  me,  in  the  long  march. 
But  I  shall  go  soon.  We  shall  all  meet  again  at  the  last  roll-call. 
Sacre  mm  de !     There's  a  tear  !  " 

He  wiped  it  away  with  his  sleeve. 

Here  our  colloquy  was  interrupted  by  the  approach  of  a  group 
of  vintagers,  who  were  returning  homeward  from  their  labor.  To 
this  party  I  joined  myself,  and  invited  the  old  soldier  to  do  the 
same  ;  but  he  shook  his  head. 

"  I  thank  you  ;  my  pathway  lies  in  a  diffeient  direction." 

"  But  there  is  no  other  village  near,  and  the  sun  has  already  set." 

"No  matter,   I  am   used  to   sleeping  on  the  ground.     Good 

night." 

I  left  the  old  man  to  his  meditations,  and  walked  on  in  company 
with  the  vintagers.  Following  a  well-trodden  pathway  through 
the  vineyards,  we  soon  descended  the  valley's  slope,  and  I  suddenly 
found  myself  in  the  bosom  of  one  of  those  little  hamlets  from 


nK^mmmmi^ 


'S^mSSKmn 


MiSSiiUnHilk^ 


MM. 


'■ymmutamm 


256 


AMEKIVAN  I'KOSE 


which  the  laborer  rises  to  his  toil  as  the  skylark  to  his  song.  My 
companions  wished  me  a  good  night,  as  each  entered  his  own 
thatch- roofed  cottage,  and  a  little  girl  led  me  out  to  the  very  inn 
which  an  hour  or  two  before  I  had  disdained  to  enter. 

When  I  awoke  in  the  morning,  a  brilliant  autumnal  sun  was 
shining  in  at  my  window.  The  merry  song  of  birds  mingled 
sweetly  with  the  sound  of  rustling  leaves  and  the  gurgle  of  the 
brook.  The  vintagers  were  going  forth  to  their  toil ;  the  wine- 
press was  busy  in  the  shade,  and  the  clatter  of  the  mill  kept  time 
to  the  miller's  song.  I  loitered  about  the  village  with  a  feeling  of 
calm  delight.  I  was  unwilling  to  leave  the  seclusion  of  this  se- 
questered hamlet ;  but  at  length,  with  reluctant  step,  I  took  the 
cross-road  through  the  vineyard,  and  in  a  moment  the  little  village 
had  sunk  again,  as  if  by  enchantment,  into  the  bosom  of  the  earth. 

[From  Outre-Afer,  a  Pilgrimage  beyond  the  Sea,  1833-1834,  "The  Valley 
of  the  Loire."    This  text  is  that  of  the  edition  of  1846.] 


!  -.%=i?rt;;5fSLJ^-a.v: -JVCI ■ ' £lnT;wg?Kt!^j: 


-t:?^^':'^^!S*^!l3?R36?Sfti89I!Ja 


Mfitt' 


lis  song.     My 
;ered  his  own 
the  very  inn 
r. 

mnal  sun  was 
lirds  mingled 
gurgle  of  the 
lil ;  the  wine- 
uili  kept  time 
th  a  feeling  of 
)n  of  this  se- 
p,  I  took  the 
lie  little  village 
n  of  the  earth. 

$34,  "The  Valley 


ABRAHAM    LINCOLN 

[Abraham  Lincoln,  sixteenth  President  of  the  United  States,  was  born  near 
Hodgensville,  Ky.,  Feb.  12,  1809.  His  education  was  a  desultory  one,  as 
he  was  almost  wholly  self-taught.  He  was  admitted  to  the  Illinois  bar  in 
1837,  having  already  shown  a  marked  interest  in  public  affairs.  He  served  in 
the  State  Legislature  (1834-42).  >n  the  national  Congress  (1846-48).  and  was 
elected  President  of  the  United  States  in  i860.  Reelected  in  18C4,  he  was 
assassinated  by  John  Wilkes  Booth  soon  after  the  beginning  of  his  second  term 
of  office,  and  died  April  15,  1865.  The  standard  edition  of  his  papers  and 
speeches  is  that  of  J.  G.  Nicolay.  The  best  biography  is  that  of  Hay  and 
Nicolay.] 

Lincoln's  style,  both  in  the  sphere  of  oratory  and  in  the  sphere 
of  dialectic,  exhib''  •  two  distinct  aad  very  striking  characteristics. 
The  first  is  a  remu.  jle  compactness,  clarity,  and  precision  of 
statement,  which  may  be  taken  as  a  nearly  faultless  model  of  coii- 
vincing  exposition.  These  qualities,  moreover,  derive  their  ulti- 
mate effectiveness  from  the  supreme  perfection  with  which  they 
show  the  intellectual  processes  that  gave  them  birth.  The  domi- 
nant thought  is  stripped  of  every  superfluous  detail  and  made  to 
stand  out  vividly  before  the  mind  in  a  clear  white  brilliancy  of  phras- 
ing ;  a  icrvous  energy  that  is  muscular  and  full  of  force  brings 
every  word  to  bear  upon  the  writer's  purpose ;  while  a  delicate 
balancing  of  contrasted  thought  is  conveyed  in  an  equally  delicate 
balancing  of  phrase,  that  pleases  and  attracts  the  mind,  no  less 
than  the  ear,  of  him  who  hears  it.  A  tendency  toward  veiled  an- 
tithesis, indeed,  may  be  set  down  as  a  definite  feature  of  Lincoln's 
oratory.  It  enters  into  nearly  all  of  his  most  finished  utterances ; 
and  it  is  the  more  effective  in  that  it  does  not  spring  from  con- 
scious artifice,  but  is  entirely  natural;  for  it  arose  from  the 
supremely  logical  workings  of  an  intellect  that  had  been  trained  to 
see  the  other  side  of  every  question,  to  set  one  fact  against  another, 
to  weigh  and  to  compare,  and  then  to  render  judgment  with  a 
perfect  impartiality.  This  it  was  that  gave  to  Lincoln's  controver- 
s  2S7 


'JSSSmi' 


i 


I  i 


358 


AMERICAN  PKOSE 


sial  oratory  its  great  persuasive  power ;  for  it  struck  the  note  of 
absolute  sincerity  and  of  intense  conviction,  —  tiie  note  that 
was  lacking  in  the  oratory  of  his  most  redoubtable  opponent, 
Douglas,  as  it  was  lacking  also  in  the  eloquence  of  the  greate-.'.t  of 
the  Roman  orators. 

This  trait  in  Lincoln's  style  was  fostered,  if  it  was  not  actually 
created,  by  his  legal  training,  and  by  the  necessity  imposed  upon 
him  of  addressing  boilies  of  men  who  lacked  the  academic  point 
of  view,  who  were  not  versed  in  technicalities,  but  whose  mother 
wit  and  native  shrewdness  made  them  keen  to  detect  a  flaw  in  the 
most  brilliant  argument  and  to  supply  by  close  and  cogent  reason- 
ing the  lack  of  formal  training.  Lincoln's  style,  then,  was  no  holi- 
day weapon,  but  one  that  had  been  slowly  forged  by  him  in  the 
fire  of  experience,  one  that  had  been  tempered  to  a  perfect  edge, 
one  that  had  again  and  again  been  tested  in  the  severest  of  foren- 
sic conflicts. 

The  second  characteristic  is  still  more  remarkable.  It  finds  its  em- 
bodiment in  the  perfect  taste  and  exquisite  finish  that  endow  some 
of  his  periods  with  such  unusual  beauty  of  expression.  In  several 
of  the  famous  passages  that  are  quoted  here  —  the  First  ,and 
Second  Inaugurals  and  the  Gettysburg  Address  —  the  most  accom- 
plished rhetorician  will  find  it  difficult  to  detect  a  flaw.  And  they 
contain  much  more  than  rhetoric.  The  sentences  are  short  and 
simple ;  the  thought  is  not  elaborated  ;  yet  the  simplicity  is  the 
simplicity  of  strength,  and  the  ease  is  the  ease  of  conscious  power, 
while  throughout  the  words  whose  cadences  run  on  in  an  unbroken 
harmony  there  is  a  certain  loftiness  of  diction  that  not  infrequently 
attains  to  the  sublime,  especially  when  a  coloring  of  metaphor  is 
introduced  that  half  recalls  the  severe  yet  splendid  imagery  of  the 
Hebrew  prophets.  Just  how  this  taste,  this  instinctive  perception 
of  every  cadence,  and  this  touch  of  the  sublime,  became  a  part  of 
Lincoln's  intellectual  endowment  is  a  mystery  that  stylists  have  in 
vain  endeavored  to  make  clear.  Perhaps  the  ultimate  solution 
must  be  sought  in  that  psychological  truth  which  contams  the  expla- 
nation of  the  source  of  every  great  style.  For  a  style  ic  only  great 
when  it  is  a  true  reflection  of  mentality,  of  temperamtn*.,  of  the 
man  himself  of  whom  it  is  a  part ;  and  thus  it  is  that  we  may  find 
in  the  prose  of  this  untaught  American  the  accurate  embodiment 


.-|t- 


"*"■*<-,  .^(W9"»-=»W 


»i*Kjiiisiefew.»iiB't^i!!^»iavi)iBtp^^ 


the  note  of 
e  note  that 
le  opponent, 
;  greatest  of 

not  actually 
iiposed  upon 
idemic  point 
liose  mother 

a  flaw  in  the 
jgent  reason- 
,  was  no  hoU- 
y  him  in  the 
perfect  edge, 
est  of  foren- 

it  finds  its  em- 
t  endow  some 
I.  In  several 
le  First  and 

most  accom- 
V.  And  they 
ire  short  and 
ipUcity  is  the 
scions  power, 

an  unbrolien 
t  infrequently 
f  metaphor  is 
nagery  of  the 
^e  perception 
ame  a  part  of 
ty lists  have  in 
nate  solution 
ins  the  expla- 
;  i;  only  great 
imtn*.,  of  the 
t  we  may  find 

embodiment 


A  UK  All  AM  LINCOLN 


259 


c.-his  own  character  as  mouldo.l  by  experience  and  by  environment. 
It  had  cU-urncss  because  his  tliought  was  logical ;  it  had  sincerity 
because  he  was  himself  sincere;  it  had  solemnity  and  statelmess 
because  of  his  own  fundamental  seriousness,  whose  depths  were  in 
reality  revealed  and  not  obscured  by  the  humor  that  so  often 
played  upon  the  surface  of  his  thought;  and  it  had  harmony  be- 
cause in  him  the  qualities  of  strength  and  gentlen'-  were  fitly  and 
indissolubly  harmonized. 

Hakry  Thurston  Peck 


26o  AMERICAN  PROSE 


FIRST  INAUGURAL  ADDRESS 

This  country,  with  its  institutions,  belongs  to  the  people  who  in- 
habit it.  Whenever  they  shall  grow  weary  of  the  existing  govern- 
ment, they  can  exercise  their  constitutional  right  of  amending  it, 
or  their  revolutionary  right  to  dismember  or  overthrow  it.  I  can- 
not be  ignorant  of  the  fact  that  many  worthy  and  patriotic  citizens 
are  desirous  of  having  the  National  Constitution  amended.  While 
I  make  no  recommendation  of  amendments,  I  fully  recognize  the 
rightful  authority  of  the  people  over  the  whole  subject,  to  be  exer- 
cised in  either  of  the  modes  prescribed  in  the  instrument  itself; 
and  I  should,  under  existing  circumstances,  favor  rather  than 
oppose  a  fair  opportunity  being  afforded  the  people  to  act  upon 
it.  I  will  venture  to  add  that  to  me  the  convention  mode  seems 
preferable,  in  that  it  allows  amendments  to  originate  with  the  peo- 
ple themselves,  instead  of  only  permitting  them  to  take  or  reject 
propositions  originated  by  otht.-s  not  especially  chosen  for  the 
purpose,  and  which  might  not  bt  precisely  such  as  they  would 
wish  to  either  accept  or  refuse.  I  understand  a  proposed  amend- 
ment to  the  Constitution — which  amendment,  however,  I  have  not 
seen  —  has  passed  Congress,  to  the  effect  that  .he  Federal  Govern- 
ment shall  never  interfere  with  the  domestic  institutions  of  the  States, 
including  that  of  persons  held  to  service.  To  avoid  misconstruc- 
tion of  what  I  have  said,  I  depart  from  my  purpose  not  to  speak 
of  particular  amendments  so  far  as  to  say  that,  holding  such  a  pro- 
vision to  now  be  implied  constitutional  law,  I  have  no  objection  to 
its  being  made  express  and  irrevocable. 

The  chief  magistrate  derives  all  his  authority  from  the  people, 
and  they  have  conferred  none  upon  him  to  fix  terms  for  the  sep- 
aration of  the  States.  The  people  themselves  can  do  this  also 
if  they  choose ;  but  the  executive,  as  such,  has  nothing  to  do 
with  it.  His  duty  is  to  administer  the  present  government,  as  it 
came  to  his  hands,  and  to  transmit  it,  unimpaired  by  him,  to  his 
successor. 

Why  should  there  not  be  a  patient  confidence  in  the  ultimate 
justice  of  the  people  ?  Is  there  any  better  or  equal  hope  in  the 
world?    In  our  present  differences  is  either  party  without  faith  of 


f'i'. 


"•'niiV-rtftJ-'>'.-.::r;i-.Vj.= 


.  **V;C3tJ»Kl&  4-yfa-^  %^ff^^>^^S>J^ 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN 


261 


eople  who  in- 
isting  govern- 
amending  it, 
)w  it.  I  can- 
riotic  citizens 
ided.  While 
recognize  the 
;t,  to  be  exer- 
ument  itself; 
rather  than 
5  to  act  upon 
1  mode  seems 
with  the  peo- 
take  or  reject 
losen  for  the 
,s  they  would 
losed  amend- 
'er,  I  have  not 
deral  Govern- 
s  of  the  States, 
I  misconstrue- 
not  to  speak 
ig  such  a  pro- 

0  objection  to 

n  the  people, 
IS  for  the  sep- 
i  do  this  also 
lothing  to  do 
jrnment,  as  it 
jy  him,  to  his 

1  the  ultimate 
1  hope  in  the 
ithout  faith  of 


being  in  the  right?  If  the  Almighty  Ruler  of  Nations,  with  his 
eternal  truth  and  justice,  be  mi  your  side  of  the  North,  or  on  yours 
of  the  South,  that  truth  and  that  justice  will  surely  prevail  by  the 
judgment  of  this  great  tribunal  of  the  American  people. 

By  the  frame  of  the  government  under  which  we  live,  this  same 
people  have  wisely  given  their  public  servants  but  little  power  for 
mischief;  and  have,  with  equal  wisdom,  provided  for  the  return 
of  that  little  to  their  own  hands  at  very  short  intervals.  While  the 
people  retain  their  virtue  and  vigilance,  no  administration,  by  any 
extreme  of  wickedness  or  folly,  can  very  seriously  injure  the  gov- 
ernment in  the  short  si)ace  of  four  years. 

My  countrymen,  one  and  all,  think  calmly  and  well  upon  this 
whole  subject.  Notliing  valuable  can  be  lost  by  taking  time.  If 
there  be  an  object  to  hurry  any  of  you  in  hot  haste  to  a  step 
which  you  would  never  take  deliberately,  that  object  will  be  frus- 
trated by  taking  time ;  but  no  good  object  can  be  frustrated  by 
it.  Such  of  you  as  are  now  dissatisfied,  still  have  the  old  Consti- 
tution unimpaired,  and,  on  the  sensitive  point,  the  laws  of  your 
own  framing  under  it;  while  the  new  administration  will  have 
no  immediate  power,  if  it  would,  to  change  either.  If  it  were 
admitted  that  you  who  are  dissatisfied  hold  the  riglu  side  in  the 
dispute,  there  still  is  no  single  good  reason  for  precipitate  action. 
Intelligence,  patriotism,  Christianity,  and  a  firm  reliance  on  Him 
who  has  never  yet  forsaken  this  favored  land,  are  still  competent 
to  adjust  in  the  beat  way  our  present  difficulty. 

In  your  hands,  my  dissatisfied  fellow-countrymen,  and  not  in 
mine,  is  the  momentous  issue  of  civil  war.  The  government  will 
not  assail  you.  You  can  have  no  conflict  without  being  yourselves 
the  aggressors.  You  have  no  oath  registered  in  heaven  to  de- 
stroy the  government,  while  I  shall  have  the  most  solemn  one  to 
"preserve,  protect,  and  defend  it." 

I  am  loath  to  close.  We  are  not  enemies,  but  friends.  We 
must  not  be  enemies.  Though  passion  may  have  strained,  it 
must  not  break  our  bonds  of  affection.  The  mystic  chords  of 
memory,  stretching  from  every  battle-field  and  patriot  grave  to 
every  living  heart  and  hearthstone  all  over  this  broad  land,  will  yet 
swell  the  chorus  of  the  Union  when  again  touched,  as  surely  they 
will  be,  by  the  better  angels  of  our  nature. 


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,  ;^..';i^.-:^-.i^!'^ia"^-^M^;! 


262 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


[From  tlic  luist  liiaiii^indl  AJifrtss,  March  4,  18O1.  Reprinted,  by  per- 
mission of  the  pubhshers,  I'he  Ceniury  Company,  from  tlie  text  used  b)  Nicolay 
and  Hay,  CompUlc  Works  of  Abrnham  Lincoln,  vol.  ii,  pp.  6-7.] 


I! 


LETTER  TO  GENERAL  McCLELLAN 

Executive  Mansion,  Washington,  D.C, 
October  13,  1862. 
Majdr-Generai,  McCi.ellan  : 

My  Dear  Sir :  You  remember  my  speaking  to  you  of  what  I 
called  your  over-cautiousness.  Are  you  not  over-cautious  when 
you  assume  that  you  cannot  do  what  the  enemy  is  constantly  doing? 
Should  you  not  claim  to  be  at  least  his  equal  in  prowess,  and  act 
upon  the  claim?  As  I  understand,  you  telegraphed  General  Hal- 
leck  that  you  cannot  subsist  your  army  at  Winchester  unless  the  rail- 
road from  Harper's  Ferry  to  that  point  be  put  in  working  order. 
But  the  enemy  does  now  subsist  his  army  at  Winchester,  at  a  dis- 
tance nearly  twice  as  great  from  railroad  transportation  as  you 
would  have  to  do  without  the  railroad  last  named.  He  now 
wagons  from  Culpeper  Court  House,  which  is  just  about  twice  as 
far  as  you  would  have  to  do  from  Harper's  Ferry.  He  is  certainly 
not  more  than  half  as  well  provided  with  wagons  as  you  are.  I 
certainly  should  be  pleased  for  you  to  have  the  advantage  of  the 
railroad  from  Harper's  Ferry  to  Winchester,  but  it  wastes  all  the 
remainder  of  autumn  to  give  it  to  you,  and  in  fact  ignores  the  ques- 
tion of  time,  which  cannot  and  must  not  be  ignored.  Again,  one 
of  the  standard  maxims  of  war,  as  you  know,  is  to  "  operate  upon 
the  enemy's  communications  as  much  as  possible  without  expos- 
ing your  own."  You  seem  to  act  as  if  this  applies  against  you, 
but  cannot  apply  in  your  favor.  Change  positions  with  the  enemy, 
and  think  you  not  he  would  break  your  communication  with 
Richmond  within  the  next  twenty-four  hours?  You  dread  his 
going  into  Pennsylvania ;  but  if  he  does  so  in  full  force,  he  gives 
up  his  communications  to  you  absolutely,  and  you  have  nothing 
to  do  but  to  follow  and  ruin  him.  If  he  does  so  with  less  than 
full  force,  f.ill  upon  and  beat  what  is  left  behind  all  the  easier. 
Exclusive  of  the  water-line,  you  are  now  nearer  Richmond  than 
the  enemy  is  by  the  route  that  you  can  and  he  must  take.     Why 


ii:3iaiisri!w»-»i*st»5S!Sfag*i*«5gi3»8isr- 


i^iiB^ftii*ih1»jflj«fc.  J 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN 


263 


srinted,  by  per- 
used b)  Nicolay 


<GTON,  D.C., 


ou  of  wliat  I 
iiutious  when 
tantly  doing  ? 
wess,  and  act 
General  Hal- 
inless  the  rail- 
orking  order, 
ster,  at  a  dis- 
tation  as  you 
d.  He  now 
bout  twice  as 
[e  is  certainly 
i  you  are.  I 
intage  of  the 
ivastes  all  the 
ores  the  ques- 
Again,  one 
operate  upon 
ithout  expos- 
against  you, 
th  the  enemy, 
inication  with 
)u  dread  his 
orce,  he  gives 
have  nothing 
vith  less  than 
ill  the  easier, 
chmond  than 
t  take.     Why 


can  you  not  reach  there  before  him,  unless  you  admit  that  he  is 
more  than  your  equal  on  a  march?  His  route  is  the  arc  of  a 
circle,  while  yours  is  the  chord.  The  roads  are  as  good  on  yours 
as  on  his.  You  know  I  desired,  but  did  not  order,  you  to  cross 
the  Potomac  below,  instead  of  above,  the  Shenandoah  and  Blue 
Ridge.  My  idea  was  that  this  would  at  once  menace  the  enemy's 
communications,  which  I  would  seize  if  he  would  permit. 

If  he  should  move  northward,  I  would  follow  him  closely,  hold- 
ing his  communications.  If  he  should  prevent  our  seizing  his 
communications  and  move  toward  Richmond,  I  would  press 
closely  to  him,  fight  him  if  a  favorable  opportunity  should  present, 
and  at  least  try  to  beat  him  to  Richmond  on  the  inside  track. 
I  say,  "  try "  ;  if  we  never  try,  we  shall  never  succeed.  If  he 
makes  a  stand  at  Winchester,  moving  neither  north  nor  south,  I 
would  fight  him  there,  on  the  idea  that  if  we  cannot  beat  him 
when  he  bears  the  wastage  of  coming  to  us,  we  never  can  when 
we  bear  the  wastage  of  going  to  him.  This  proposition  is  a  simple 
truth,  and  is  too  important  to  be  lost  sight  of  for  a  moment.  In 
coming  to  us  he  tenders  us  an  advantage  which  we  should  not 
waive.  We  should  not  so  operate  as  merely  to  drive  him  away. 
As  we  must  beat  him  somewhere  or  fail  finally,  we  can  do  it,  if  at 
all,  easier  near  to  us  than  far  away.  If  we  cannot  beat  the  enemy 
where  he  row  is,  we  never  can,  he  again  being  virithin  the  in- 
trenchments  of  Richmond. 

Recurring  to  the  idea  of  going  10  Richmond  on  the  inside 
track,  the  facility  of  supplying  from  the  side  away  from  the  enemy 
is  remarkable,  as  it  were,  by  the  different  spokes  of  a  wheel  ex- 
tending from  the  hub  toward  the  rim,  and  this  whether  you  move 
directly  by  the  chord  or  on  the  inside  arc,  hugging  the  Blue 
Ridge  more  closely.  The  chord-line,  as  you  see,  carries  you  to 
Aldie,  Hay  Market,  and  Fredericksburg;  and  you  see  how  turn- 
pikes, railroads,  and  finally  the  Potomac,  by  Aquia  Creek,  meet 
you  at  all  points  from  Washington ;  the  same,  only  the  lines 
lengthened  a  little,  if  you  press  closer  to  the  Blue  Ridge  part  of 
the  way. 

The  gaps  through  the  Blue  Ridge  I  understand  to  be  about  the 
following  distances  from  Harper's  Ferry,  to  wit :  Vestal's,  5  miles  ; 
Gregory's,   13 ;    Snicker's,   18 ;    Ashby's,    28 ;    Manassas,   38  j 


IfSeR,!: 


«^|IHwt«MMMtetaMriitai 


mm 


264  /tAfEA'fC.fjV  I'A'OSE 

Chester,  45  ;  and  Thoniton's,  53.  I  should  think  it  preferable 
to  take  the  route  nearest  tlie  enemy,  disabling  him  to  make  an 
important  move  without  your  knowledge,  and  compelling  him 
to  keep  his  forces  together  for  dread  of  you.  The  gaps  would 
enable  you  to  attack  if  you  should  wish.  For  a  great  part  of  the 
way  you  would  be  practically  between  the  enemy  and  both 
Washington  and  Richmond,  enabling  us  to  spare  you  the  greatest 
number  of  troops  from  here.  When  at  length  running  for  Rich- 
mond ahead  of  him  enables  him  to  move  this  way,  if  he  does  so, 
turn  and  attack  him  in  the  rear.  But  I  think  he  should  be  en- 
gaged long  before  such  point  is  reached.  It  is  all  easy  if  our 
troops  march  as  well  as  the  enemy,  and  it  is  unmanly  to  say  they 
cannot  do  it.    This  letter  is  in  no  sense  an  order. 


Yours  truly, 


A.  LiNCOiJj 


[Reprinted,  by  permission  of  The  Century  Company,  from  Complete  Works 
of  Lincoln,  vol.  ii,  pp.  245-247.] 


ADDRESS   AT  GETTYSBURG 

Fourscore  and  seven  years  ago  our  fathers  brought  forth  on  this 
continent  a  new  nation,  conceived  in  liberty,  and  dedicated  to  the 
proposition  that  all  men  are  created  ecpial. 

Now  wc  are  engaged  in  a  great  civil  war,  testing  whether  that 
nation,  or  any  nation  so  conceived  and  so  dedicated,  can  long 
endure.  We  are  met  on  a  great  battle-field  of  that  war.  We  have 
come  to  dedicate  a  portion  of  that  field  as  a  final  resting-place  for 
those  who  here  gave  their  lives  that  that  nation  might  live.  It  is 
altogether  fitting  and  proper  that  we  should  do  this. 

But,  in  a  larger  sense,  we  cannot  dedicate  —  we  cannot  conse- 
crate —  we  cannot  hallow  —  this  ground.  The  brave  men,  living 
and  dead,  who  struggled  here,  have  consf»rra*eJ  it  far  above  our 
poor  power  to  add  or  to  detract.  The  world  will  little  note  nor 
long  remember  what  we  say  here,  but  it  can  never  forget  what  they 
did  here.  It  is  for  us,  the  living,  rather,  to  be  dedicated  here  to 
the  unfinished  work  which  they  who  fought  here  have  thus  far  so 


■  -*iie5a^x-^*-^-Wtf.Ort*^.'U«-^^;^SH*;^5«Sf  ■ 


it  preferable 
\  to  make  an 
mpelling  him 
e  gaps  would 
It  part  of  the 
ay  and  both 
u  the  greatest 
ling  for  Rich- 

if  he  does  so, 
should  be  en- 
U  easy  if  our 
ily  to  say  they 


A.  Lmcoijj 

Complete  Works 


It  forth  on  this 
idic.ited  to  the 

g  whether  that 
,ted,  can  long 
(var.  We  have 
;sting-place  for 
ght  live.     It  is 

cannot  conse- 
ive  men,  living 

far  above  our 
little  note  nor 
arget  what  they 
dicated  here  to 
ave  thus  far  so 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN 


26s 


nobly  advanced.  It  is  rather  for  us  to  be  here  dedicated  to  the 
great  task  remaining  before  us  —  that  from  these  honored  dead  we 
take  increascJ  devotion  to  that  cause  for  which  they  gave  the  last 
full  measure  of  devotion ;  that  we  here  highly  resolve  that  these 
dead  shall  not  have  died  in  vain ;  that  this  nation,  undtr  (lod, 
shall  have  a  new  birth  of  freedom ;  and  that  government  of  the 
people,  by  the  people,  for  the  people,  shall  not  perish  from  the 
earth. 

\^Aiidress  at  the  Dedication  of  the  Gettysburg  National  Cemetery,  Nov.  19, 
1863.  Reprinted,  by  permissiun  of  The  Century  Company,  from  Complete 
Works  of  Lincoln,  vol,  ii,  p.  439.] 


SECOND   INAUGURAL  ADDRESS 

Fellow-countrymen  :  —  At  this  second  appearing  to  take  the 
oath  of  the  presidential  office,  there  is  less  occasion  for  an  extended 
address  than  there  was  at  the  first.  Then  a  statement,  somewhat 
in  detail,  of  a  course  to  be  pursued,  b  ^emed  fitting  and  proper. 
Now,  at  the  expiration  of  four  years,  during  which  public  decla- 
rations have  been  constantly  called  forth  on  every  point  and  phase 
of  the  great  contest  which  still  absorbs  the  attention  and  engrosses 
the  energies  of  the  nation,  little  that  is  new  can  be  presented. 
The  progress  of  our  arms,  upon  which  all  else  chiefly  depends,  is 
as  well  known  to  the  public  as  to  myself;  and  it  is,  I  trust,  rea- 
sonably satisfactory  and  encouraging  to  all.  With  high  hope  for 
the  future,  no  prediction  in  regard  to  it  is  ventured. 

On  the  occasion  corresponding  to  this  four  years  ago,  all 
thoughts  were  anxiously  directed  to  an  impending  civil  war.  All 
dreaded  it — all  sought  to  avert  it.  While  the  inaugural  address 
was  being  delivered  from  this  place,  devoted  altogether  to  saving  the 
Union  without  war,  insurgent  agents  were  in  the  city  seeking  to 
destroy  it  without  war  —  seeking  to  dissolve  the  Unic.i,  and  divide 
effects,  by  negotiation.  Both  parties  deprecated  war ;  but  one  of 
them  would  make  war  rather  than  let  the  nation  survive  ;  and  the 
other  would  accept  war  ratlier  than  let  it  perish.  And  the  war 
came. 


trnmrntrnmim 


■    1^  H  ■  *!■ 


tMsasmamm 


266 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


One-eighth  of  the  whole  population  were  colored  slaves,  not  dis- 
tributed generally  over  the  Union,  but  localized  in  the  Southern 
part  of  it.  These  slaves  ':onstituted  a  peculiar  and  powerful 
interest.  All  knew  that  this  interest  was,  somehow,  the  cause  of 
the  war.  To  strengthen,  perpetuate,  and  extend  this  interest  was 
the  object  kc  nhich  the  insurgents  would  rend  the  Union,  even 
by  war ;  while  the  government  claimed  no  right  to  do  more  than 
to  restrict  the  territorial  enlargement  of  it. 

Neither  party  expected  for  the  war  the  magnitude  or  the  dura- 
tion which  it  has  already  attained.  Neither  anticipated  that  the 
cause  of  the  conflict  might  cease  with,  or  even  before,  the  conflict 
itself  should  cease.  Each  looked  for  an  easier  triumph,  and  a 
result  less  fundamental  and  astounding.  Both  read  the  same 
Bible,  and  pray  to  the  same  God  ;  and  each  invokes  his  aid  against 
the  other.  It  may  seem  strange  that  any  men  should  dare  to  ask 
a  just  God'E  assistance  in  wringing  their  \)Xt»A  from  the  sweat  of 
other  men's  faces ;  but  let  us  judge  not,  that  we  be  not  judged. 
The  prayers  of  both  could  not  be  answered  —  that  of  neither  has 
been  answered  fully. 

The  Almighty  has  his  own  purposes.  "Woe  unto  the  world 
because  of  offenses  !  for  it  must  needs  be  that  ofl"enses  come  ;  but 
woe  to  that  man  by  whom  the  ofl"ense  cometh."  If  we  shall  sup- 
pose that  American  slavery  is  one  of  those  offenses  which,  in  the 
providence  of  God,  must  needs  come,  but  which,  having  continued 
through  his  appointed  time,  he  now  wills  to  remove,  and  that  he 
gives  to  both  North  and  South  this  terrible  war,  as  the  woe  due  to 
those  by  whom  the  offense  came,  shall  we  discern  therein  any 
departure  from  those  divine  attributes  which  the  believers  in  a 
living  God  always  ascribe  to  him  ?  Fondly  do  we  hope  —•  fervently 
do  we  pray  —  that  this  mighty  scourge  of  war  may  speedily  pass 
away.  Yet,  if  God  wills  that  it  shall  continue  until  all  the  wealth 
piled  by  the  bondman's  two  hundred  and  fifty  years  of  unrequited 
toil  shall  be  sunk,  and  until  every  drop  of  blood  drawn  with  the 
lash  shall  be  paid  by  another  drawn  with  the  sword,  as  was  said 
three  thousand  years  ago,  so  still  it  must  be  said,  "  The  judgments 
of  the  Lord  are  true  and  righteous  altogether." 

With  malice  toward  none ;  with  charity  for  all ;  with  firmness 
in  the  right,  as  God  gives  us  to  see  the  right,  let  us  strive  on  to 


j>».y^s  Vc«»*i^-«aiaft£SB** 


laves,  not  dis- 
the  Southern 
ind  powerful 
the  cause  of 
5  interest  was 
;  Union,  even 
io  more  than 

or  the  dura- 
ated  that  the 
e,  the  conflict 
iumph,  and  a 
ead  the  same 
his  aid  against 
Id  dare  to  ask 
I  the  sweat  of 
e  not  judged, 
af  neither  has 

nto  the  world 

es  come ;  but 

we  shall  sup- 

which,  in  the 

ing  continued 

;,  and  that  he 

;he  woe  due  to 

n   therein  any 

believers  in  a 

ipe  —  fervently 

y  speedily  pass 

all  the  wealth 

of  unrequited 

Irawn  with  the 

rd,  as  was  said 

The  judgments 

;  with  firmness 
is  strive  on  to 


AB.'^AHAM  LINCOLN 


267 


finish  the  work  we  are  in  ;  to  bind  up  the  nation's  wounds  ;  to 
care  for  him  who  shall  have  borne  the  battle,  and  for  his  widow, 
and  his  orpiian  —  to  do  all  which  may  achieve  and  cherish  a  just 
and  lasting  peace  among  ourselves,  and  with  ail  nations. 

\Seeoiui  Inaugural  AMrest,  March  4,  1865.     Reprinted,  by  permission  of 
The  Century  Company,  from  CompUleWorki  of  Lincoln,  \'^\.  ii,  pp.  ^'56-657.] 


EDGAR    ALLAN    POE 


[Edgar  Allan  Toe  was  liorn  in  Hoston,  Jan.  19, 1809,  and  died  in  Baltimore, 
Oct.  7,  1849.  He  was  tlie  grandson  of  I>aviil  I'oe,  a  distinguished  .Maryland 
officer  in  the  Kcvolution.  His  father  and  mother  were  both  actors.  Toe  was 
early  left  an  orphan,  and  was  adopted  liy  John  Allan,  a  wealthy  Scotch  tobacco 
merchant  in  Richmond.  He  was  educated  in  private  schools  in  Richmond 
and  in  Kngland,  and  entered  the  University  of  Virginia  in  1826,  hut  was  wi.h- 
drawn  in  the  ■'ame  year  by  his  adopted  father,  who  placed  him  in  his  counting- 
room.  ( )n  account  of  difierences  with  his  family,  he  left  them  in  1827,  entered 
the  army  under  an  assumed  name,  and  served  for  two  years  in  a  battery  of 
artillery.  He  was  then  partially  reconciled  with  Mr.  Allan,  and  received  an 
annuity  until  Mr.  Allan's  death  in  1834.  In  1830  he  entered  the  Military 
Academy  at  West  I'oint,  l.ut  was  dismissed  in  the  following  year  by  court- 
martial  on  charges  of  remissness  in  duty  and  disobedience.  From  that  time  until 
his  vleath  he  led  the  uncertain  and  irregular  life  of  a  struggling  writer,  editor,  and 
literary  hack,  in  Haltimore,  Thiladelphia,  and  New  York.  His  brilliant  intellect 
was  in  most  cases  ajipreciated  by  his  numerous  employers  and  colleagues.  But 
his  irritable  and  morbidly  sensitive  nature,  his  occasional  indulgence  in  drink, 
which  produce<l  in  him  the  effect  of  temporary  insanity,  and  in  opium,  interfered 
greatly  with  his  success.  His  health  was  for  years  much  impaired,  and  he 
was  during  short  periods,  particularly  after  his  wife's  death,  scarcely  responsible 
for  his  acts.  In  person,  I'oe  was  strong  and  handsome.  Women  were  especially 
attracted  by  him,  and  probably  understood  the  inequalities  of  his  genius  better 
than  did  his  male  contemporaries.  His  wife,  who  was  less  than  fourteen  at  her 
marriage  in  i8j6,  he  cared  for  tenderly  until  her  death  in  1847.  Poe's  character 
has  had  its  bitter  detractors,  its  apologists,  and  its  warm  admirers.  Some  have 
thought  him  an  unfortunate  and  persecuted  man ;  some,  a  dishonorable  creature 
of  genius  ;  and  there  have  not  been  wanting  those  who  attribute  his  almost 
inexplicable  vagaries  and  lapses  from  rational  living  to  disease  of  the  brain. 
The  facts  of  his  life  have  been  patiently  collected  by  G.  E.  Woodberry  in  his 
Life  (Uoston,  1885),  and  in  the  "Memoir"  introducing  the  edition,  by 
E.  C.  Stedman  and  G.  E.  Woodberry,  of  his  complete  works. 

Poe's  stories  and  criticisms  were  generally  first  published  in  periodicals. 
The  collections  published  during  his  lifetime  were  Narrative  of  Arthur 
Gordon  Pym  (1838),  Tales  of  the  Grotesque  and  Arabesque  (1840),  Tales 
(1845),  and  The  Literati  (1850).  Eureka:  A  Prose  Poem  was  published  in 
1848.  Poe's  complete  works  have  been  collected  and  edited,  with  especial 
attention  to  the  text,  by  E.  C.  Stedman  and  G.  E.  Woodberry.  From  the  text 
of  this  edition,  with  the  permission  of  the  publishers,  Herbert  S.  Stone  and  Co., 
the  extracts  in  this  volume  are  reprinted.] 

268 


'  ■  '<ifei'«a?^SiKi!..-5S4i»Sj; 


ed  in  Baltiitiore, 
lished  Maryland 
.ctors.  I'oe  was 
r  Scotch  tobacco 
)s  in  Richmord 
6,  but  was  wi.h- 
in  his  counting- 
iu  1827,  entered 

in  a  battery  of 
and  received  an 
red  the  Military 
y  year  by  court- 
nil  that  time  until 
vriter,  editor,  and 
brilliant  intellect 
colleagues.  But 
ulgence  in  drink, 
opium,  interfered 
mpaired,  and  he 
ircely  responsible 
:n  were  especially 
his  genius  better 
an  fourteen  at  her 
.  Poe's  character 
rers.  Some  have 
onorable  creature 
ribute  his  almost 
ase  of  the  brain. 
Woodberry  in  his 

the  edition,  by 

id  in  periodicals. 
raiive  of  Arthur 
ue  (1840),  Talet 
t  was  published  in 
ted,  with  especial 
y.  From  the  text 
:  S.  Stone  and  Co., 


■■'■.if 


jb^&tf^^j^  f.;^  j>'<;r.^<^%s^^  . 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


269 


One  of  Poe's  Tales  of  the  Grotesque  portrays  the  fantastic 
doings  of  the  so-railed  Angel  of  the  Odd.  'I'he  name  is  not 
inapt  for  Poe  himself.  In  ail  his  writings,  with  the  i)ossibIe 
exception  of  his  criticism,  there  is  present  the  note  of  abnormal- 
ity; and  even  in  his  criticism,  the  wil''tilness  and  the  egotism 
often  reach  a  pitch  that  suggests  morbidness  of  nature.  Poe  was 
a  decadent  before  the  days  of  decadence,  and  it  is  through  no 
mistaken  instinct  that  French  decadents  from  Baudelaire  to 
Mallarm^  have  delighted  to  do  him  honor. 

Poe  was  fond  of  mystifications,  and  his  confessions,  as  regards 
methods  of  work,  are  not  to  be  taken  too  literally.  Nevertheless, 
the  rules  he  lays  down  in  his  essay  on  Hawthorne,  for  the  writer 
of  fiction,  more  particularly  of  the  tale,  are  unquestionably  frank 
in  expression  and  true  to  Poe's  own  instincts  and  habits.  These 
rules  make  very  clear  the  artificiality  of  art  as  Poe  conceived  of 
it,  its  remoteness  in  substance  from  normal  exi)erience  ;  they  also 
illustrate  the  perfection  of  Poe's  mastery  of  technique  within  the 
limits  which  his  conception  of  art  imposed  upon  him.  According 
to  Poe's  theory,  the  tale  ought  to  be  an  excjuisite  tissue  of  moods 
and  images  wrought  skilfully  together  through  the  medium  of  prose 
for  the  production  of  a  single  effect.  The  first  task  of  the  literary 
artist  is  to  determine  what  the  single  effect  is  to  be,  at  which  his 
tale  is  to  aim  among  the  almost  countless  effects  of  terror,  pas- 
sion, horror,  grotesqueness,  or  humor,  that  are  open  to  his  choice. 
Having  determined  on  his  effect,  the  artist  is  to  keep  it  vividly 
before  his  imagination,  and  to  let  it  control  him  in  all  his  selection 
of  details ;  he  is  to  construct  his  entire  story  so  that  every  fact, 
every  incident,  every  character,  even  every  phrase,  figure,  and 
cadence,  shall  prepare  for  or  intensify  this  single  effect,  and  bring 
out  its  peculiar  quality.  The  effect  is  an  end  in  itself,  and  is  its 
own  justification.  The  story  need  have  no  symtolic  implications, 
—  need  send  no  suggestions  of  remote  moral  truths  darting  over 
the  nerves  to  the  brain.  According  to  Poe's  own  practice,  the 
effects  best  worth  aiming  at  are  emotional  shivers  of  some  sort, 
such  as  come  from  a  gudden  keen  sense  of  the  strangeness,  or 
grotesqueness,  or  mystery,  or  horror  of  life.  Each  of  Poe's  best 
tales  turns  out  on  analysis  to  be  simply  an  exquisitely  adjusted 
series  of  devices  for  playing  adroitly  upon  responsive  nerves,  and 


*i.^wt^*.».~v^^tyaa^  iF^tft^jiftWliywlMW  iJi.1i|WHiMA*^.tiMIWtfi«WMWlwi 


270 


AM/:KfC.tX  I'KOSF. 


l)iitting  a  sensitive   tcmpcrainenl  into  a  liarmoniously   vibrating 
mood. 

The  material  that  Poe's  nature  olTers  him  most  generously  for 
fabrication  into  art  is  as  artificial  as  tlie  methods  by  which  he 
likes  to  work.     I'oe  had  a  degenerate's  excitable  nerves,  ardent 
senses,  and  irresponsible  feelings.     Moreover,  he   had  an   alto- 
gether modern  delight  in  watching  intently  for  their  own  sakes 
the  tricks  of  his  nerves  and  senses,  and  the  shadow-play  of  his 
moods.     Me  was  an  amateur  of  sensations  and  impressions,  prone 
to  dwelling  upon  them  half  mystically,  and  bent  on  cajjturing  the 
essential  charm  of  each.     Me  was  extraordinarily  sensitive  to  all 
the  fleeting  "  unconsidered  trifles"  of  the  life  of  the  senses  and  the 
feelings.     In  one  of  his  stories  he  boasts  of  the  deliir'^t  of  behold- 
ing "  floating  in  mid-air  the  sad  visions  that  the    nany  may  not 
view"  ;  of  pondering  "over  the  perfume  of  some  rovcl  flower"  ; 
of  "growing   bewildered   with    the    meaning    of    some   musical 
cadence."      This  same  morbidness  and  semi-hysterical  sensitive- 
ness may  be  traced  also  in  Poe's  heroes ;  they,  too,  are  tortured 
by  the  intensity  of  their  sensations ;  they  are  persecuted  by  fixed 
ideas ;  they  isolate  themselves  from  the  world,  brood  over  their 
abnormal  experiences  of  feeling  and  imagination,   and   live   in 
dream-regions  of  their  own   fontastic   invention.     Poe's   favorite 
characters,  —  Usher,  the  lovers  of  Ligeia,  of  Eleanora,  and   of 
Morella, —  are  degenerates,  pure  and  simple,  victims  of  nervous 
disease,   experimenters  with   narcotics,   and   dabblers   in   death. 
Through  all  these  characteristics,  they  call  to  mind  the  heroes  of 
modern  decadent  French  fiction,  Huysmans'  des  Esseintes,  for 
example.     Like  modern  decadent  heroes,  too,  Poe's  heroes  feel 
the  fascination  of  the  morally  perverse,  and  spice  the  esthetic 
banquet   with   deadly   sins,  —  sins  whose  piquancy  lies  in  their 
abnormality  of  thought  and  feeling,  not  in  any  gross  criminality  of 
act.     Moreover,  Poe  himself  despises  the  conventional  and  the 
commonplace  both  in  character  and  in  life;  he  is  cynical  and 
disenchanted,    and    boasts    of    his    cynicism    and    disenchant- 
ment.     '•  I   really  perceive   that   vanity,"  he   asserta  in  one  of 
his  letters,  "about  which  most  men  merely  prate,  —  the  vanity 
of  the  human  or  temporal  life.     I  live  continually  in  a  reverie 
of  the  future,  I  have  no  faith  in  human  perfectibility, —  I  think 


^^«^i^^MW£v**«i^s;)*^ai5<eSSiti^$*»?*"- 


EDGAK  AI.l.At^  POK 


271 


sly  vibrating 

cnerously  for 
by  which  he 
ervcs,  nrdeiU 
lail  an  alto- 
ir  own  sakes 
iV-play  of  his 
;ssions,  prone 
:aptiuing  the 
nsitive  to  all 
enses  and  the 
'>t  of  behold- 
lany  may  not 
»vcl  flower  " ; 
>onie  musical 
cal  sensitive- 
,  are  tortured 
uted  by  fixed 
ad  over  their 

and  live  in 
:'oe*s  favorite 
nora,  and  of 
ns  of  nervous 
ers  in  death. 
:he  heroes  of 
Esseintes,  for 
's  heroes  feel 
(  the  aesthetic 

lies  in  their 
criminality  of 
ional  and  the 
s  cynical  and 
i  disenchant- 
rta  in  one  of 
,  —  the  vanity 
1  in  a  reverie 
ility, —  I  think 


that  human  exertion  will  have  no  appreciable   effect  upon  hu- 
manity." 

In  Toe's  so-called  Tales  of  Jiatiocination  the  material  is  differ- 
ent from  what  h.is  thus  far  been  described  ;  it  is,  however,  no 
less  artificial,  and  the  methotls  by  wiiich  it  is  made  effective  are 
much  the  same.  In  short.  Foe  is  confessedly  a  necromancer 
whose  sole  ambition  is  to  play  delicately  upon  nerves  and  intel- 
lects that  have  been  skilfully  attuned  to  submit  to  his  influence. 
He  is  a  weaver  of  spells  and  a  dreamer  of  dreams,  who  has  no 
concern  with  actual  life,  or  with  the  commonplace  moods  or 
motives  that  enter  into  every-day  experience.  In  all  his  tales  no 
character  is  portrayed  with  any  patience  that  the  reader  can  fancy 
himself  encountering  in  the  highways  of  life,  or  that  he  would  not 
hesitate  to  take  frankly  by  the  hanil.  Poe's  men  are  either  mag- 
niloquent poseurs  who  dine  on  their  hearts  in  public,  or  else 
disembodied  intellects  who  do  nothing  but  guess  enormously  com- 
plicated riddles. 

Nature,  too,  as  Poe  portrays  it,  becomes  fiintastic  and  unverifi- 
able,  a  region  of  pure  phantasmagoria.  Its  omnipresent  "  mead- 
ows "are  sprinkled  with  asi)hodels  and  acanthuses;  it  is  watered 
with  rivers  of  silenne  that  lapse  away  into  blue  <ia  Vinci  distances  ; 
it  is  lighted  with  triple-tinted  suns,  and  is  at  last  shut  in  with  the 
golden  walls  of  the  universe.  When  Poe  abandons  this  sort  of 
phantasmagoric  nature  it  is  only  to  take  refuge  in  a  nature 
that  has  the  artificiality  of  the  play-house  and  of  stage-land,  a 
mechanical  nature  that  is  cleverly  put  together  with  all  manner  of 
practical  trap-doors  and  ingenious  stage-settings  for  the  conven- 
ience of  Poe,  the  marvel- worker  and  conjurer,  the  inventer  of  com- 
plicated wonders,  and  the  unraveller  of  prettily  fabricated  mysteries. 
It  is  into  an  artificial  world  of  this  sort  that  Poe's  purely  intel- 
lectual stories  conduct,  an  exquisitely  mechanical  toy-world,  well- 
geared,  nicely  varnished,  and  running  as  smoothly  as  the  universe 
on  the  eighth  day  of  creation. 

The  sharp  division  between  these  two  worlds  of  nature  in  which 
Poe  keeps  his  readers  —  both  worlds  unreal,  one  intellectuaUy 
manufactured,  the  other  fantastically  dreamed  out  — suggests  a 
noteworthy  characteristic  of  all  Poe's  writings,  — their  trick  of 
seeming  the  work  never  of  a  whole  man,  always  of  a  fragmen- 


272 


AMI.KICAN  Ph'OSK 


tary  niaii.  Poe  tlic  author  sfcms  cither  a  man  of  sheer  intellect 
or  a  i\i:in  of  sheer  ]);l^.sion,  -  never  a  man  of  varied  and  rieh 
spiritual  experience,  in  whom  the  life  of  the  intellect  ami  the  life 
of  the  feelings  and  the  imagination  have  been  thoroughly  fused. 
Here,  ag:iin,  there  is  a  suggestion  of  thai  exotic  iiuality  that  has 
aheaily  been  noted  m  Too,  and  once  more  there  is  traceable  a 
certain  kinshij)  between  I'oe  and  French  men  of  letters.  It  was 
one  of  c:oleri<lge's  complaints,  as  regards  the  French  genius,  that 
Frencii  writers,  as  coni|,ared  with  those  of  Teutonic  stock,  are  lack- 
ing in  Geiniith,  —  in  those  spiritual  (lualities  that  come  from  the 
complete  fusion  of  intellect  witli  deep  feeling.  The  same  criticism 
may  be  made  upon  IVje.  In  nothing  that  he  has  produced  is 
there  found  a  genuinely  satisfying  portrayal  of  life  in  terms  of  both 
heart  and  mind.  Passion,  Poe's  writings  contained  in  plenty, 
albeit  of  a  somewhat  play-acting  sort;  delicately  elaborated 
thought  they  possess  in  abundance.  But  never  do  Poe's  heart  and 
intelic(  t  unite  under  the  guidance  of  his  imagination  in  a  portrayal 
of  life  that  satisfies  through  its  loyally  to  the  whole  range  of  human 
interests,  anil  through  its  swiftly  penetrating  insight  into  human 
experience  of  the  most  complex  and  richly  vital  sort.  Pee  is 
always  either  emotionally  shallow  or  intellectually  superficial. 

It  may  be  \irged  that  Poe's  Talcs  of  Passion  and  of  Mystery  are 
subtle,  —  intellectually  subtle,  —  and  that  in  framing  such  incidents 
a.nd  characters  as  those  in  The  Fall  of  the  House  of  Usher  Poe's 
intellect  and  heart  work  together  for  the  interpretation  of  life.  In 
point  of  fact,  however,  tales  of  this  sort  are  subtle  c.'.y  in  the 
cleverness  of  their  construction,  intellectual  only  in  the  ingenuity 
of  their  techniiiue.  Subtle  in  construction  these  emotional  tales 
doubtless  arc,  —  full  of  exquisite  manipulation  and  nicely  calculated 
handiwork;  but  subtle  or  intellectual  in  their  interpretation  of 
life  or  character  they  never  are.  The  phantom-folk  that  they  deal 
with  are  simjilified  to  the  point  of  being  monomaniacs,  —  victims 
of  one  idea  or  of  one  passion.  The  life  portrayed  is  a  superficial 
life,  obviously  spectacular,  with  no  complexity  of  intellectual 
motive  or  of  human  interest.  Poe's  subtlety  is  a  subtlety  of  tech- 
nique and  execution,  —  the  subtlety  of  the  deft  handicraftsman 
who  is  skilled  in  his  treatment  of  mechanical  problems,  not  the 
subtlety  of  the  really  great  human  artist  who  grasps  life  in  all  its 


''''■^'^^Aiiia^^SKa^s^ims»im»miiM^)i&mMiiii&iSi. 


.•,:jijgS»ixMii«^<f- 


iccr  intellect 
jd   ami  ricli 

and  the  life 
Highly  fused, 
lity  that  has 
i  traceable  a 
tcrs.  It  was 
I  geniiiH,  that 
jck,  are  latk- 
»me  from  the 
ime  criticism 

produced  is 
terms  of  both 
1  in  plenty, 
\f  elaborated 
e's  heart  and 
n  a  portrayal 
ige  of  human 

into  human 
sort.  Poe  is 
lerficial. 
f  Mystery  are 
uch  incidents 
'  Usher  Poe's 
in  of  life.  In 
!  cly  in  the 
the  ingenuity 
notional  tales 
ely  calculated 
rpretation  of 
that  they  deal 
ics,  —  victims 

a  superficial 
f  intellectual 
)tlety  of  tech- 
mdicraftsman 
lems,  not  the 
i  life  in  all  its 


F.DCAK   AI.I.A.W  I'OE 


273 


implications  alike  for  thought  an<l  for  feeling,  and  reveals  its  intri- 
cacies with  imaginative  penetration. 

Art  was  for  Poe  one  long  series  of  technical  prolUems  more  or 
less  consciously  confronted,  and  in  this  prevailing  interest  in 
technical  problems  his  resemblance  to  mo«lern  decadents  is  once 
more  evident.  All  the  motives  and  methods  tliat  liavc  thus  far 
been  noted  as  characteristic  of  Poe  imi)ly  that  art  is  for  the  most 
part  a  matter  of  technical  dexterity,  and  depends  for  its  success 
on  shrewd  calculation  of  effects,  on  the  wise  use  of  confessedly 
artificial  nwterial,  and  on  masterly  execution.  With  life  itself  the 
artist  is  only  incidentally  concerned  ;  he  looks  to  it  merely  as  to  a 
storehouse  whence  he  may  draw  the  crude  material  that  is  to  be 
worked  up  into  art ;  depth  of  interpretation  and  genuineness  of 
human  appeal  are  only  subordinate  excellences.  Art  exists  for  its 
own  sake  and  is  its  own  justification.  A  poem,  Poe  asserts,  in 
The  Poetic  Principle,  should  be  "written  solely  for  the  poem's 
sake."  In  this  phrase,  he  substantially  anticipates  the  famous 
formula  of  art  for  art's  sake  which  modern  a:stheticism  has 
adopted  as  its  distinctive  legend. 

And  indeed  it  is  precisely  because  of  his  mastery  of  technique 
that  Poe  has  lived  and  is  sure  to  live  in  literature.  The  genre  he 
most  cultivated  is  slight ;  his  "  criticism  of  life  "  is  insignificant, 
almost  meaningless.  The  "  beauty  "  that  connects  itself  with  his 
work  is  felt  to  be  an  adventitious  beauty  imported  into  life  through 
a  morbid  temperament,  rather  than  essential  beauty  actually  resi- 
dent in  life,  and  revealed  through  the  swift  play  of  poetic  imagina- 
tion. Yet  beauty  Poe's  best  tales  certainly  create  with  an  almost 
inevitable  artistic  instinct  for  the  possibilities  and  recpiirements  of 
artificial  production.  His  really  memorable  short  stories  have 
perfect  unity  of  effect,  are  delicately  elaborated  with  vibrant 
detail,  make  often  marvellously  subtle  play  upon  s-.-iftly  responsive 
nerves,  which  have  been  put  mto  tremulous  readi.  ss  by  cunning 
hints  and  premonitions,  and  employ  in  their  wording  and  in  their 
cadences  a  sound-symbolism  that  is  conjuring  in  its  creation  of 
atmosphere  and  reenforcement  of  effect.  A  great  part  of  the  power 
of  his  most  weird  romances  comes  from  the  visionary  concrete- 
ness  of  his  style,  from  his  complete  visualization  of  the  fantastic 
incidents  he  invents,  —  or  rather  from  his  complete  realization  of 

T 


274 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


them  for  all  the  senses.  Such  tales  as  FJeanon.  and  the  Assign 
nation  have  almost  the  brilliant  sensnous  surface  of  ^he  best 
romantic  poetry,  deal  almost  as  continuously  in  glowing  detail  for 
eye  and  ear.  Poe's  world  gains  its  mystery  and  occasional  ghast- 
liness,  not  like  Hawthorne's,  through  vagueness  and  the  tantalizing 
duplicity  of  symbolism,  but  through  a  direci  representation  of  the 
sights  and  sounds  that  go  with  crisped  nerves  and  morbid  mental 
states,  through  the  intense  realization  of  the  visionary  experiences 
of  disordered  imaginations,  through  vivid  portrayal  of  disease  and 
death.  Poe's  world  is  a  burnished  world  of  exquisite  falseness 
which  bribes  us  to  accept  it  by  its  congruity  of  detail,  its  self-con- 
sistency, and  its  visionary  intensity  and  splendor  of  realization. 
It  seems  r'^al  because  it  is  so  magnificently  false.  The  harmony 
is  everywhere  peifectly  preserved,  in  the  preparation  of  effects,  in 
the  choice  of  details,  in  tone  and  in  atmosphere. 

Poe's  style  is  delicately  artificial,  to  suit  his  subject-matter  and 
his  methods.  He  is  fond  of  calculated  involutions  and  inversions 
and  of  nicely  modulated  rhythms.  He  had  evidently  read  De 
Quincey  with  intense  appreciation,  and  there  are  repeatedly  in 
Poe's  most  highly  finished  prose  echoes  of  De  Quincey's  cadences 
and  groupings  of  accent.  In  such  visionary  tales  as  Ekanora  the 
style  has  the  sustained  music  and  th-j  elaborate  melodies  of  an 
incantation,  and  does  much  by  its  subtly  modulated  rise  and  fall, 
its  apt  accelerations  and  delays,  and  its  sympathetically  shifting 
tone-color,  to  subdue  and  control  the  reader's  imagination,  and  to 
impose  upon  him  with  surreptitious  persuasiveness  the  images,  the 
moods,  and  the  fantastic  dreaming  that  Poe  would  have  him  help- 
lessly accept.  In  his  critical  writings,  on  the  other  hand,  Poe's 
style  is  keen,  analytical,  acrid,  harshly  accentuated.  Here  again 
is  illustrated  the  curious  division  in  Poe  between  emotions  and 
imagination  on  the  one  hand,  and  intellect  on  the  oth(;r.  Poe's 
favorite  critic  is  Macaulay.  "  The  style  and  general  conduct  of 
Macaulay's  critical  papers,"  Poe  assures  us,  "  could  scarcely  be 
improved."  Accordingly,  in  his  own  critical  essays,  there  is  much 
of  the  over-anxious  emphasis,  the  challenging  manner,  the  demon- 
strative tone  that  make  Macaulay's  literary  essays  so  lacking  in 
subtlety,  delicacy,  and  cliarm.  There  is  much,  too,  of  Macaulay's 
hardness  of  finish,  unsensitiveness  to  the  shade,  and  confident 


■S'MSl<S:S!kWJW^S^4 


and  the  Assig- 
:e  of  the  best 
wing  detail  for 
:casional  ghast- 
1  the  tantahzing 
lentation  of  the 
morbid  mental 
ary  experiences 

of  disease  and 
uisite  falseness 
ail,  its  self-con- 

of  realization. 

The  harmony 
jn  of  effects,  in 

iect-matter  and 
.  and  inversions 
lently  read  De 
!  repeatedly  in 
icey's  cadences 
s  Ekaiwra  the 
melodies  of  an 
i  rise  and  fall, 
etically  shifting 
jination,  and  to 
the  images,  the 
have  him  help- 
ler  hand,  Poe's 
1.     Here  again 

emotions  and 
;  oth(;r.  Poe's 
ral  conduct  of 
lid  scarcely  be 
I,  there  is  much 
ler,  the  demon- 
i  so  lacking  in 
,  of  Macaulay's 

and  confident 


EDGAR   ALLAN  POE 


375 


maladroitness.  On  the  other  hand,  Poe  cannot  at  all  rival 
Macaulay  in  wide  reading,  varied  knowledge,  command  of  lite- 
rary gossip  and  apt  anecdote,  or  in  dignity  of  experience  and 
breadth  of  culture.  Accordingly,  Poe  as  a  critic  escapes  being  a 
miniature,  "  shallow  hearted "  Macaulay  only  through  his  genius 
for  analysis  and  his  insight  into  technical  problems.  He  has  a  far 
surer  intuition  than  Macaulay  in  v.hatever  concerns  the  mechanics 
of  art.  In  his  essays  on  special  poets  or  poems,  he  explains  many 
obscure  passages  with  genuine  niceness  of  instinct,  and  comments 
often  with  great  delicacy  of  perception  upon  beauties  of  technique 
and  of  structure.  In  his  essays  on  the  theory  of  art,  he  adopts  in 
some  degree  the  romantic  doctrine  of  art  as  a  revealer  of  what  he 
calls  "  supernal  loveliness,"  and  writes  with  a  plausible  imitation  of 
academic  sincerity  a  plea  for  the  Poetic  Principle,  as  though  its 
presence  in  the  human  soul  were  a  proof  of  immortality.  Poetry, 
he  implies,  is  the  ultimate  form  of  speech.  Yet,  despite  the 
amiable  volubility  with  which  Poe  recommends  this  doctrine,  the 
essay  does  not  succeed  in  getting  itself  beHeved ;  it  is  largely 
vitiated  by  the  tone  of  the  professional  lecturer,  who  seems  to  be 
saying  what  he  knows  will  please  or  impress,  rather  than  uttering 
his  own  frank  thought. 

And,  indeed,  shallowness  of  conviction  is  the  radical  defect  in 
all  Poe's  work  both  as  theorizer  and  artist.  He  has  play-feelings, 
which  he  uses  with  the  utmost  ingenuity  in  his  Tales  of  Passion 
and  Romance,  and  which  he  describes  with  the  happiest  facility. 
He  has  unsurpassable  intellectual  acuteness,  and  invents  very  pretty 
and  puzzling  complications  of  incident,  in  unravelling  which  mani- 
kins i'?e  their  play-wits  with  astonishing  dexterity.  He  weaves, 
too,  through  the  help  of  this  same  inventive  intellect,  plausible  and 
suggestive  theories  about  life  and  art.  Yet  these  many  "  inven- 
tions," artistic  and  theoretic  alike,  seem  to  us  all  the  time  merely 
exquisite  make-believe.  Poe  lacked  deep  convictions  of  any  kind, 
profound  human  experience,  genuineness,  and  wealth  of  nature. 
His  art  is  correspondingly  superficial  and  artificial.  Nevertheless, 
his  work  is  sure  to  live  because  of  its  perfection  of  form.  He  is 
a  masterly  technician,  —  the  first  of  the  Decadents,  —  the  fore- 
runner of  the  practicers  of  art  for  art's  sake. 

Lewis  Edwards  Gates 


I  iTMBl'TW  1Hiiit>ial 


mxm 


AMEK/rA.V  PROSE 


SHADOW  — A   PARABLE 

Yea !  thuugli  I  walk  tliruugh  the  valley  of  the  Shailuw. 

J'salm  of  David, 

Ye  who  read  are  still  among  the  living;  but  I  who  write  shall 
have  long  since  gone  my  way  into  the  region  of  shadows.  For 
indeed  strange  things  shall  happen,  and  secret  things  be  known, 
and  many  centuries  shall  pass  away,  ere  these  memorials  be  seen 
of  men.  And,  when  seen,  there  will  be  some  to  disbelieve  and 
some  to  doubt,  and  yet  a  few  who  will  find  much  to  ponder  upon 
in  the  characters  here  graven  with  a  stylus  of  iron. 

The  year  had  been  a  year  of  terror,  and  of  feelings  more  intense 
than  terror  for  which  there  is  no  name  upon  the  earth.  For  many 
prodigies  and  signs  had  taken  place,  and  far  and  wide,  over  sea 
and  land,  the  black  wings  of  the  Pestilence  were  spread  abroad. 
To  those,  nevertheless,  cunning  in  the  stars,  it  was  not  unknown 
that  the  heavens  wore  an  aspect  of  ill;  an  .  to  me,  the  Greek 
Oinos,  among  others,  it  was  evident  that  now  had  arrived  the 
alternation  of  that  seven  hundred  and  ninety-fourth  year  when, 
at  the  entrance  of  Aries,  the  planet  Jupiter  is  conjoined  with  the 
red  ring  of  the  terrible  Saturnus.  The  peculiar  spirit  of  the 
skies,  if  I  mistake  not  greatly,  made  itself  manifest,  not  only  in 
the  physical  orb  of  the  earth,  but  in  the  souls,  imaginations,  and 
meditations  of  mankind. 

Over  some  flasks  of  the  red  Chian  wine,  within  the  walls  of  a 
noble  hall  in  a  dim  city  called  Ptolemais,  we  sat  at  night,  a  com- 
pany of  seven.  And  to  our  chamber  there  was  no  entrance  save 
by  a  lofty  door  of  brass;  and  the  door  was  fashioned  by  the 
artisan  Corinnos,  and,  being  of  rare  workmanship,  was  fastened 
from  within.  Black  draperies  likewise,  in  the  gloomy  room, 
shut  out  from  our  view  the  moon,  the  lurid  stars,  and  the  people- 
less  streets  —  but  the  boding  and  the  memory  of  Evil,  they 
would  not  be  so  excluded.  There  were  things  around  us  and 
about  of  which  I  could  render  no  distinct  account, —  things  mate- 
rial and  spiritual:  heaviness  in  the  atmosphere,  a  sense  of  suffo- 
cation, anxiety  —  and,  above  all,  that  terrible  state  of  existence 


■fSh& 


\ 


■\:i 


EDGAR  Al.r.AJV  POP. 


V7 


iilow. 

ilm  of  David. 

ho  write  shall 
hadows.  For 
igs  be  known, 
lorials  be  seen 
lisbelieve  and 
)  ponder  upon 

s  more  intense 
;h.  For  many 
wide,  over  sea 
spread  abroad, 
i  not  unknown 
lie,  the  Greek 
id  arrived  the 
'th  year  when, 
jined  with  the 
spirit  of  the 
St,  not  only  in 
gi  nations,  and 

the  walls  of  a 
night,  acom- 
entrance  save 
lioned  by  the 
,  was  fastened 
gloomy  room, 
id  the  people- 
of  Evil,  they 
round  us  and 
—  things  mate- 
sense  of  suffo- 
e  of  existence 


which  the  nervous  experience  when  the  senses  are  keenly  living 
and  awake,  and  meanwhile  the  powers  of  thought  lie  dormant.  A 
dead  weight  hung  upon  us.  It  hung  upon  our  limbs,  upon  the 
household  furniture,  upon  the  goblets  from  which  we  drank;  and 
all  things  were  depressed,  and  borne  down  thereby — all  things 
save  only  the  flames  of  the  seven  iron  lamps  which  illumined  our 
revel.  Uprearing  themselves  in  tall  slender  lines  of  light,  they 
thus  remained  burning,  all  pallid  a.id  motionless;  and  in  the 
mirror  which  their  lustre  formed  upon  the  round  table  of  ebony  at 
which  we  sat,  each  of  us  there  assembled  beheld  the  pallor  of  his 
own  countenance,  and  the  unquiet  glare  in  the  downcast  eyes  of 
his  companions.  Yet  we  laughed  and  were  merry  in  our  proper 
way  —  which  was  hysterical:  and  sang  the  songs  of  Anacreou 
—  which  are  madness;  and  drank  deeply  —  although  the  purple 
wine  reminded  us  of  blood.  For  there  was  yet  another  tenant 
of  our  chamber  in  the  person  of  young  Zoilus.  Dead  and  at  full 
length  he  lay,  enshrouded :  the  genius  and  the  demon  of  the  scene. 
Alas!  he  bore  no  portion  in  our  mirth,  save  that  his  countenance, 
distorted  with  the  plague,  and  his  eyes  in  which  Death  had  but 
half  extinguished  the  fire  of  the  pestilence,  seemed  to  take  such 
interest  in  our  merriment  as  the  dead  may  haply  take  in  the  mer- 
riment of  those  who  are  to  die.  But  although  I,  Oinos,  felt  that 
the  eyes  of  the  departed  were  upon  me,  still  I  forced  myself  not 
to  perceive  the  bitterness  of  their  expression,  and,  gazing  down 
steadily  into  the  depths  of  the  ebony  mirror,  sang  with  a  loud 
and  sonorous  voice  the  songs  of  the  son  of  Teios.  But  gradually 
my  songs  they  ceased,  and  their  echoes,  rolling  afar  off  among 
the  sable  draperies  of  the  chamber,  became  weak,  and  undistin- 
guishable,  and  so  faded  away.  \nd  lo!  from  among  those 
sable  draper'es  where  the  sounds  of  the  song  departed,  there 
came  forth  a  dark  and  undefined  shadow  —  a  shadow  such  as  the 
moon,  when  low  in  heaven,  might  fashion  from  the  figure  of  a 
man;  but  it  was  the  shadow  neither  of  man,  nor  of  God,  nor  of 
any  familiar  thing.  And  quivering  awhile  among  the  draperies 
of  the  room,  it  at  length  rested  in  full  view  upon  the  surface  of 
the  door  of  brass.  But  the  shadow  was  vague,  and  formless,  and 
indefinite,  and  was  the  shadow  neither  of  man  nor  of  God  — 
neither  God  of  Greece,  nor  God  of  Chaldsea,  nor  any  Egyptian 


X 


wiaSmmmm: 


278 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


God.  And  the  shadow  rested  upon  the  brazen  doorway,  and 
under  the  arch  of  the  entablature  of  the  door,  and  moved  not, 
nor  spoke  any  word,  but  there  became  stationary  and  remained. 
And  the  door  whereupon  the  shadow  rested  was,  if  1  remember 
aright,  over  against  the  feet  of  the  young  Zoilus  enshrouded.  But 
we,  the  seven  there  assembled,  having  seen  the  shadow  as  it 
came  out  from  among  the  draperies,  dared  not  steadily  behold 
it,  but  cast  down  our  eyes,  and  gazed  continually  into  the  depths 
of  the  mirror  of  ebony.  And  at  length  I,  Oinos,  speaking  some 
low  words,  demanded  of  the  shadow  its  dwelling  and  its  appella- 
tion. And  the  shadow  answered,  "1  am  SHADOW,  and  my 
dwelling  is  near  to  the  catacombs  of  Ptolemais,  and  hard  by 
those  dim  plains  of  Helusion  which  border  \ipon  the  foul  Charo- 
nian  canal."  And  then  did  we,  the  seven,  start  from  our  seats  in 
horror,  and  stand  trembling,  and  shuddering,  and  aghast:  for  the 
tones  in  the  voice  of  the  shadow  were  not  the  tones  of  any  one 
being,  but  of  a  multitude  of  beings,  and,  varying  in  their  cadences 
from  syllable  to  syllable,  fell  duskily  upon  our  ears  in  the  well- 
remembered  and  familiar  accents  of  many  thousand  departed 
friends. 

[1835.    Reprinted,  by  permission  of  Herbert  S.  Stone  and  Co.,  from  Works 
of  Edgar  Allan  Poe,  vol.  i,  pp.  1 25-128.] 


LIGEIA 

In  halls  such  as  these,  in  a  bridal  chamber  such  as  this,  I 
passed,  with  the  Lady  of  Tremaine,  the  unhallowed  hours  of  the 
first  month  of  our  marriage  —  passed  them  with  but  little  dis- 
quietude. That  my  wife  dreaded  the  fierce  moodiness  of  my 
temper  —  that  she  shunned  me,  and  loved  me  but  little  —  I  could 
not  help  perceiving;  but  it  gave  me  rather  pleasure  than  other- 
wise. I  loathed  her  with  a  hatred  belonging  more  to  demon  than 
to  man.  My  memory  flew  back  (oh,  with  what  intensity  of  re- 
gret !)  to  Ligeia,  the  beloved,  the  august,  the  beautiful,  the 
entombed.  I  revelled  in  recollections  of  her  purity,  of  her  wis- 
dom, of  her  lofty,  her  ethereal  nature,  of  her  passionate,  her 
idolatrous  love.     Now,  then,  did  my  spirit  fully  and  freely  burn 


'V. 


'•■%^^^i}M'dst<W!.-<^m^^i!^^miMS's.s:,mSi&,i^^^m'- 


doorway,  and 
d  nioveti  not, 
irid  remained. 
i  1  remember 
irouded.     But 

shadow  as  it 
teadily  behold 
rito  the  depths 
ipeaking  some 
id  its  appella- 
lOW,  and  my 

and  hard  by 
iie  foul  Charo- 
m  our  seats  in 
ighast :  for  the 
les  of  any  one 
their  cadences 
rs  in  the  well- 
jand  departed 

Co.,  from  Works 


nch  as  this,  I 
d  hours  of  the 
but  little  dis- 
odiness  of  my 
ittle  —  I  could 
ire  than  other- 
to  demon  than 
ntensity  of  re- 
beautiful,  the 
ity,  of  her  wis- 
)assionate,  her 
ind  freely  burn 


EDGAR   ALLAN  POP. 


279 


with  more  than  all  the  fires  of  her  own.  In  the  excitement  of 
my  opium  dreams,  (for  I  was  habitually  fettered  in  the  shackles 
of  the  drug,)  I  would  call  aloud  upon  her  name,  during  the 
silence  of  the  night,  or  among  the  shell.^red  recesses  of  the  glens 
by  day,  as  if,  through  the  wild  eagerness,  the  solemn  passion,  the 
consuming  ardor  of  my  longing  for  the  departed,  I  could  restore 
her  to  the  pathway  she  had  abandoned  —  ah,  coiilii  it  be  forever? 
— upon  the  earth. 

About  the  commencement  of  the  second  month  of  the  marriage, 
the  l^dy  Rowena  was  attacked  with  sudden  illness,  from  which 
her  recovery  was  slow.  The  fever  which  consumed  her,  rendered 
her  nights  uneasy;  and  in  her  perturbed  state  of  half-slumber, 
she  spoke  of  sounds,  and  of  motions,  in  and  about  the  chamber 
of  the  turret,  which  I  concluded  had  no  origin  save  in  the  dis- 
temper of  her  fancy,  or  perhaps  in  the  phantasmagoric  influences 
of  the  chamber  itself.  She  became  at  length  convalescent  — 
finally,  well.  Yet  but  a  brief  period  elapsed,  ere  a  second  more 
violent  disorder  again  threw  her  upon  a  bed  of  suffering;  and 
from  this  attack  her  frame,  at  all  times  feeble,  never  altogether 
recovered.  Her  illnesses  were,  after  this  epoch,  of  alarming 
character,  and  of  more  alarming  recurrence,  defying  alike  the 
knowledge  and  the  great  exertions  of  her  physicians.  With  the 
increase  of  the  chronic  disease,  which  had  thus  apparently  taken 
too  sure  hold  upon  her  constitution  to  be  eradicated  by  human 
means,  I  could  not  fail  to  observe  a  similar  increase  in  the  ner- 
vous irritation  of  her  temperament,  and  in  her  excitability  by 
trivial  causes  of  fear.  She  spoke  again,  and  now  more  fre- 
quently and  pertinaciously,  of  the  sounds  —  of  the  slight  sounds: 
—  and  of  the  unusual  motions  among  the  tapestries,  to  which  sht 
had  formerly  alluded. 

One  night,  near  the  closing  in  of  September,  she  pressed  this 
distressing  subject  with  more  than  usual  emphasis  upon  my  atten- 
tion. She  had  just  awakened  from  an  unquiet  slumber,  and  I 
had  been  watching,  with  feelings  half  of  anxiety,  half  of  vague 
terror,  the  workings  of  her  emaciated  countenance.  I  sat  by  the 
side  of  her  ebony  bed,  upon  one  of  the  ottomans  of  India.  She 
partly  arose,  and  spoke,  in  an  earnest  low  whisper,  of  sounds 
which  she  then  heard,  but  which  I  could  not  hear  —  of  motions 


28o 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


which  she  then  saw,  but  which  I  coukl  not  perceive.     The  wind 
was  rushing  hurriedly  behind  the  tapestries,  and  I  wished  to  siiow 
her  (what,  let  me  confess  it,  \  could  not  all  believe)  that  those 
almost  inarticulate  breathings,  and  those  very  gentle  variations 
of  the  figures  upon  the  wall,  were  but  the  natural  effects  cf  that 
customary  rushing  of  the  wind.     But  a  deadly  pallor,  overspread- 
ing her  face,  had  proved  to  me  that  my  exertions  to  reassure  her 
would  be  fruitless.     She  appeared  to  be  fainting,  and  no  attend- 
ants were  within  call.      I  remembered  where  was  deposited  a 
decanter  of  light  wine  which  had  been  ordered  by  her  physi- 
cians, and  hastened  across  the  chamber  to  procure  it.     But,  as  I 
stepped  beneath  the  light  of  the  censer,  two  circumstances  of  a 
startling  nature  attracted  my  attention.     I  had  felt  that  some  pal- 
pable although  invisible  object  had  passed  lightly  by  my  person; 
and  I  saw  that  there  lay  upon  the  golden  carpet,  in  the  very 
middle  of  the  rich  lustre  thrown  from  the  censer,  a  shadow  —  a 
faint,  inc. finite  shadow  of  angelic  aspect  — such  as  might  be 
fancied  for  the  shadow  of  a  shade.     Bui  I  was  wild  with  the 
excitement  of  an  immoderate  dose  of  opium,  and  heeded  these 
things  but  little,  nor  spoke  of  them  to  Rowena.     Having  found 
the  wine,  I  recrossed  the  chamber,  and  poured  out  a  gobletful, 
which  I  held  to  the  lips  of  the  fainting  lady.     She  had  now  par- 
tially recovered,  however,  and  took  the  vessel  herself,  while  I 
sank  upon  an  otttoman  near  me,  with  my  eyes  fastened  upon  her 
person.     It  was  then  that  I  became  distinctly  aware  of  a  gentle 
footfall  upon  the  carpet,  and  near  the  couch;  and  in  a  second 
thereafter,  as  Rowena  was  in  the  act  of  raising  the  wine  to  her 
lips,  I  saw,  or  may  have  dreamed  that  I  saw,  fall  within  the 
goblet,  as  if  from  some  invisible  spring  in  the  atmosphere  of  the 
room,  three  or  four  large  drops  of  a  brilliant  and  ruby-colored 
fluid.     If  this  I  saw  —  not  so  Rowena.     She  swallowed  the  wine 
unhesitatingly,  and  I  forbore  to  speak  to  her  of  a  circumstance 
which  must  after  all,  I  considered,  have  been  bu^  the  suggestion 
of  a  vivid  imagination,  rendered  morbidly  active  by  the  terror  of 
the  lady,  by  the  opium,  and  by  the  hour. 

Yet  I  cannot  conceal  it  from  my  own  perception  that,  immedi- 
ately subsequent  to  the  fall  of  the  ruby-drops,  a  rapid  change  for 
the  worst  took  place  in  the  disorder  of  my  wife;  so  that,  on  the 


'•'-'.^^v4,^S^"  ■ 


EDGAR  ALLAN  FOE 


281 


.•e.  The  wind 
ivislu'il  to  show 
L've)  that  those 
ntle  variations 
effects  of  that 
ar,  overspread- 
to  reassure  her 
and  no  attend- 
is  deposited  a 

by  her  physi- 
:  it.  But,  as  I 
umstances  of  a 

that  some  pal- 
by  my  person; 
;t,  in  the  very 
,  a  shadow  —  a 
h  as  might  be 

wild  with  the 
\  heeded  these 

Having  found 
3ut  a  gobletful, 
e  had  now  par- 
Cisclf,  while  I 
tened  upon  her 
i-are  of  a  gentle 
nd  in  a  second 
the  wine  to  her 
fall  within  the 
nosphere  of  the 
id  ruby-colored 
llowed  the  wine 
a  circumstance 

the  suggestion 
by  the  terror  of 

n  that,  immedi- 

apid  change  for 

so  that,  on  the 


third  subsequent  night,  the  hands  of  her  menials  prepared  her  for 
the  tomb,  and  on  the  fourth,  I  sat  alone,  with  iiei  shrouded  body, 
in  that  fantastic  chamber  which  had  received  her  as  my  bride. 
Wild  visions,  opium-enge;idered,  flitted  shadow-like  before  me. 
I  gazed  with  unquiet  eye  upon  the  sarcophagi  in  the  angles  of  the 
room,  upon  the  varying  figures  of  tiie  drapery,  and  upon  the  writh- 
ing of  the  party-colored  fires  in  the  censer  overhead.  My  eyes 
then  fell,  as  I  called  to  mind  the  circumstances  of  a  former  night, 
to  the  s|)ot  beneath  the  glare  of  the  censer  where  I  had  seen  the 
faint  traces  of  the  shadow.  It  was  there,  however,  no  longer; 
and  breathing  with  greater  freedom,  I  turned  my  glances  to  the 
pallid  and  rigid  figure  upon  the  bed.  Then  rushed  upon  me  a 
thousand  memories  of  I-igeia  —  and  then  came  back  upon  my 
heart,  with  the  turbulent  violence  of  a  flood,  the  whole  of  that 
unutterable  woe  with  which  T  had  regarded  her  thus  enshrouded. 
The  night  waned;  and  still,  with  a  bosom  full  of  bitter  thoughts 
of  the  one  onTy*and  supremely  beloved,  I  remained  gazing  upon 
the  body  of  Rowena. 

It  might  have  been  midnight,  or  perhaps  earlier,  or  Ir.ter,  for  I 
had  taken  no  note  of  time,  when  a  sob,  low,  gentle,  but  very  dis- 
tinct, startled  me  from  my  revery.  I  felt  that  it  came  from  the 
bed  of  ebony  —  the  bed  of  death.  I  listened  in  an  agony  of 
superstitious  terror— ^ but  there  was  no  repetition  of  the  sound. 
I  strained  my  vision  to  detect  any  motion  in  the  corpse — but 
there  was  not  the  slightest  perceptible.  Yet  I  could  not  have 
been  deceived.  I  had  heard  the  noise,  however  faint,  and  my 
soul  was  awakened  within  me.  I  resolutely  and  perseveringly 
kept  my  attention  riveted  upon  the  body.  Many  minutes  elai'sed 
before  any  circumstance  occurred  tending  to  throw  light  upon  the 
mystery.  At  length  it  became  evident  that  a  slight,  a  very  feeble, 
and  barely  noticeable  tinge  of  color  had  flushed  up  within  the 
cheeks,  and  along  the  sunken  small  veins  of  the  eyelids.  Through 
a  species  of  unutterable  horror  and  awe,  for  wiiich  the  language 
of  mortality  has  no  sufficiently  energetic  expression,  I  felt  my 
heart  cease  to  beat,  my  limbs  grow  rigid  where  I  sat.  Yet  a 
sense  of  duiy  finally  operated  to  restore  my  self-possession.  I 
could  no  longer  doubt  that  we  had  been  precipitate  in  our  prepa- 
rations—  that  Rowena  still  lived.     It  was  necessary  that  some 


^ 


282 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


immediate  exertion  be  made;  yet  the  turret  was  altogether  apart 
from  the  portion  of  the  abbey  tenanted  by  the  servants  -  there 
were  none  within  call  —  I  had  no  means  of  summoning  .hem  to 
my  aid  without  leaving  the  room  for  many  minutes  — and  this  I 
could  not  venture  to  do.  1  therefore  struggled  alone  in  my  en- 
deavors to  call  back  the  spirit  still  hovering.  In  a  short  period 
it  was  certain,  however,  that  a  re'apse  had  taken  place;  the  color 
disappeared  from  both  eyelid  and  cheek,  leaving  a  wanness  even 
more  than  that  of  marble;  the  lips  became  doubly  shrivelled  and 
pinched  up  in  the  ghastly  expression  of  death;  a  repulsive  clam- 
miness and  coldness  overspread  rapidly  the  surface  of  the  body; 
and  all  the  usual  rigorous  stiffness  immediately  supervened.  I 
fell  back  with  a  shudder  upon  the  couch  from  which  I  had  been 
so  startlingly  aroused,  and  again  gave  myself  up  to  passionate 
waking  visions  of  Ligeia. 

An  hour  thus  elapsed,  when  (could  it  be  possible?)  I  was  a 
second  time  aware  of  some  vague  sound  issuing  from  the  region 
of  the  bed.  I  listened— in  extremity  of  horror.  The  sound 
came  again  —  it  was  a  sigh.  Rushing  to  the  corpse,  I  saw  —  dis- 
tinctly saw  — a  tremor  upon  the  lips.  In  a  minute  afterwards 
they  relaxed,  disclosing  a  bright  line  of  the  pearly  teeth.  Amaze- 
ment now  struggled  in  my  bosom  >\lth  the^  profound  awe  which 
had  hitherto  reigned  there  alone.  I  felt 'that  my  vision  grew 
dim,  that  my  reason  wandered;  and  it  was  only  by  a  violent 
effort  that  I  at  length  succeeded  in  nerving  myself  to  the  task 
which  duty  thus  once  more  had  pointed  out.  There  was  now  a 
partial  glow  upon  the  forehead  and  upon  the  cheek  and  throat;  a 
perceptible  warmth  pervaded  the  whole  frame;  there  was  even 
a  slight  pulsation  at  the  heart.  The  lady  lived;  and  with  re- 
doubled ardor  I  betook  myself  to  the  task  of  restoration.  I  chafed 
and  bathed  the  temples  and  the  hands,  and  used  every  exertion 
which  experience,  and  no  little  medical  reading,  could  suggest. 
But  in  vain.  Suddenly,  the  color  fled,  the  pulsation  ceased,  the 
lips  resumed  the  expression  of  the  dead,  and,  in  an  instant  after- 
ward, the  whole  body  took  upon  itself  the  icy  chilliness,  the  livid 
hue,  the  intense  rigidity,  the  sunken  outline,  and  all  the  loath- 
some peculiarities  of  that  which  has  been,  for  many  days,  a  tenant 
of  the  tomb. 


'si'Kastt'^afjsaa 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POP. 


383 


together  apart 
vants  -  there 
nipg  ihem  to 
i  —  and  this  I 
jne  in  my  en- 
1  short  period 
ice;  the  color 
wanness  even 
shrivelled  and 
jpulsive  clam- 
of  the  body; 
jpervened.  I 
h  I  had  been 
to  passionate 

ble?)  I  was  a 
om  the  region 
.  The  sound 
;,  I  saw  —  dis- 
jte  afterwards 
;eth.  Amaze- 
ind  awe  which 
y  vision  grew 
by  a  violent 
ilf  to  the  task 
ere  was  now  a 
and  throat;  a 
liere  was  even 
and  with  re- 
ion.  I  chafed 
every  exertion 
could  suggest, 
on  ceased,  the 
1  instant  after- 
ness,  the  livid 
all  the  loath- 
days,  a  tenant 


And  again  I  sunk  into  visions  of  Ligeia  —  and  again,  (what 
marvel  tliat  I  shudder  while  I  write?)  attain  there  reached  my 
ears  a  low  sob  from  the  region  of  the  ebony  bed.  Hut  why  shall 
I  minutely  detail  the  unspeakable  horrors  of  that  night?  Why 
shall  I  pause  to  relate  how,  time  after  time,  until  near  the  period 
of  the  gray  dawn,  this  hideous  drama  of  revivification  was  re- 
peated; how  each  terrific  relapse  was  only  into  a  sterner  and 
apparently  more  irredeemable  death;  how  each  agony  wore  the 
aspect  of  a  struggle  with  some  "  visibie  foe;  and  how  each 
struggle  was  succeeded  by  I  know  not  what  of  wild  change  in  the 
personal  appearance  of  the  corpse?    Let  me  hurry  to  a  conclusion. 

The  greater  part  of  the  fearful  night  had  worn  away,  and  she 
who  had  been  dead,  once  again  stirred  —  and  .low  more  vigor- 
ously than  hitherto,  although  arousing  from  a  dissolution  more 
appalling  in  its  utter  helplessness  than  any.  I  had  long  ceased 
to  struggle  or  to  move,  and  remained  sitting  rigidly  upon  the 
ottoman,  a  helpless  prey  to  a  whirl  of  violent  emotions,  of  which 
extreme  avve  was  perhaps  the  least  terrible,  the  least  consuming. 
The  corpse,  I  repeat,  stirred,  and  now  more  vigorously  than 
before.  The  hues  of  life  flushed  up  with  unwonted  energy  into 
the  countenance  —  the  limbs  relaxed  — and,  save  that  the  eyelids 
were  yet  pressed  heavily  together,  and  that  the  bandages  and  dra- 
peries of  the  grave  still  imparted  their  charnel  character  to  the 
figure,  I  might  have  dreamed  that  Rowena  had  indeed  shaken  off, 
utterly,  the  fetters  of  Death.  But  if  this  idea  was  not,  even  then, 
altogether  adopted,  I  could  at  least  doubt  no  longer,  when,  aris- 
ing from  the  bed,  tottering,  with  feeble  steps,  with  closed  eyes, 
and  with  the  manner  of  ane  bewildered  in  a  dream,  the  thing 
that  was  enshrouded  advanced  bodily  and  palpably  into  the  middle 
of  the  apartment. 

I  trembled  not  —  I  stirred  not  —  for  a  crowd  of  unutterable 
fancies  connected  with  the  air,  the  stature,  the  demeanor  of  the 
figure,  rushing  hurriedly  through  my  brain,  had  paralyzed  —  had 
chilled  me  into  stone.  I  stirred  not  —  but  gazed  upon  the  appa- 
rition. There  was  a  mad  disorder  in  my  thoughts  —  a  tumult 
unappeasable.  Could  it,  indeed,  be  the  iiving  Rowena  who  con- 
fronted me?  Could  it  indeed  be  Rowena  at  a//  — the  fair- 
haired,  the  blue-eyed  Lady   Rowena  Trevanion  of  Tremaine. 


itfiatikiUiMMB 


1  R| 

H 

i  m 

t 

'    1  s 

I  : 

41' 

i      1 

11 

i  1 

1 1 

:     1 

if 

M 

m 

II 

AMERICAN  PKOSR 


Why,  why  should  I  doubt  it?  Ihe  iKindage  hiy  heavily  a1u)ut 
the  mouth  —  l»ut  then  migiit  it  not  l)c  ihf  mouth  o(  the  l)r'athinK 
l«ndy  of  Tremaine?  And  the  chcelcs  -  there  were  the  roses  as 
in  her  noon  of  life  —  yes,  these  riiight  indeed  be  the  fair  cheeks 
of  the  living  I-a»ly  of  I'remaine.  And  the  chin,  with  its  dimples, 
as  in  h'.'nith,  might  it  not  be  hers?  but  had  she  then  f;i own  talier 
since  ,:c.  maliitiy  f  What  inexj-reysible  madness  seized  me  with 
that  thoi  j^iit?  One  bound,  and  I  had  reached  her  feet!  Shrink- 
ing from  my  touch,  she  let  fall  from  her  head  the  gliastly  cere- 
ments which  had  confined  it,  and  there  streamed  forth,  into  the 
rushing  atmosphere  of  the  chamber,  huge  masses  of  long  and 
dishevelled  hair;  //  was  blacker  than  the  n'/ni,'<  of  the  inidnii^ht ! 
And  now  slowly  opened  the  eyes  of  the  figure  which  stood  before 
me.  "Here  then,  at  least,"  I  shrieked  aloud,  "can  I  never  — 
can  I  never  be  mistaken  —  these  are  the  full,  and  the  black,  and 
the  wild  eyes  —  of  my  lost  love  —  of  the  Lady  —  of  the  Lauv 

LlC.KIA." 

[From  I.i^eia,  i8j8.    Reprinted,  hy  perniissJDn  of  Herbert  S.  Stone  and  Co., 
from  Worki,  vol.  i,  pp.  195-202] 


THE  MURDERS  IN  THE  RUE  MORGUE 

I  have  said  that  the  whims  of  my  friend  were  manifold,  and 
thatyi?  les  Htenagais :  —  for  this  phrase  there  is  no  Knglish  equiva- 
lent. It  was  his  humor,  now,  to  decline  all  conversation  on  the 
subject  of  the  murder,  until  about  noon  the  next  day.  He  then 
asked  me,  suddenly,  if  I  had  observed  anything  peculiar  at  the 
scene  of  the  atrocity. 

There  was  something  in  his  manner  of  emphasizing  the  word 
•■•  peculiar,"  which  caused  me  to  shudder,  without  knowing  why. 

"No,  nothing />^<*///.V»;-,"  I  said;  "nothing  more,  at  least,  than 
we  both  saw  stated  in  the  paper." 

" The  Gazette"  he  replied,  " has  not  entered,  I  fear,  into  the 
unusual  horror  of  the  thing.  But  dismiss  the  idle  opinions  of  this 
print.  It  appears  to  me  that  this  mystery  is  considered  insoluble, 
for  the  very  reason  which  should  cause  it  to  he  regarded  as  easy 
of  solution  —  I  mean  for  the  outre  character  of  its  features.    The 


'  ■i.fff^a  X!  ttbm,^^  »j  ,\  At-^  W 


eavily  about 
he  l)r'athing 
the  roses  as 
e  fair  cheeks 
its  dimples, 
,t;rou'ii  taller 
ized  me  with 
•et!  Shrink- 
ghastly  cere- 
irth,  into  the 
of  long  and 
he  miiliiii^ht ! 
stood  before 
n  I  never  — 
le  black,  and 
of  the  Lauy 

,  Stone  and  Co., 


JE 

lanifold,  and 
iglish  equiva- 
ation  on  the 
y.  He  then 
ciiliar  at  the 

ing  the  word 
nowing  why. 
at  least,  than 

sar,  into  the 
inions  of  this 
red  insoluble, 
rded  as  easy 
;atures.    The 


"^TH 


EDGAR  .ti.r.Ay  roK 


285 


police  are  confoumled  by  the  seeming  absence  of  motive : 
not  for  the  murder  itself,  but  for  the  atnx  ity  of  the  niunler. 
They  are  pu/zled,  too,  l)y  theseeming  impossibility  of  reconciling 
the  voices  heard  in  contention,  with  the  facts  that  no  one  was  dis- 
covered upstairs  but  the  assassinated  Mademoiselle  I,'Kspanayc,  and 
that  there  were  no  means  of  egress  without  the  notice  of  the  i)arty 
ascending.  The  wild  disorder  of  the  room;  the  corpse  thrust, 
with  the  head  downward,  up  the  chimney  ;  the  frightful  mutilation 
of  the  body  of  the  old  lady  ;  these  considerations,  with  those  just 
mentioned,  and  others  which  I  need  not  mention,  have  sufficed  to 
l)aralyze  the  pow  fs,  by  putting  completely  at  fault  the  boasted 
acumen,  of  the  government  agents.  They  have  fallen  into  the  gross 
but  common  error  of  confounding  the  unusual  with  the  abstruse. 
But  it  is  by  these  deviations  from  the  plane  of  the  ordinary  that 
reason  feels  its  way,  if  at  all,  in  its  iiearch  for  the  true.  In  in- 
vestigations such  as  we  are  now  pursuing,  it  should  not  be  so  much 
asked  '  what  has  occurred,'  as  '  what  has  occurred  that  has  never 
occurred  before.'  In  fact,  the  facility  with  which  I  shall  arrive,  or 
have  arrived,  at  the  solution  of  this  mystery,  is  in  the  direct  ratio 
of  its  apparent  insolubility  in  the  eyes  of  the  police." 

I  stared  at  the  speaker  in  mute  astonishment. 

"  I  am  now  awaiting,"  continued  he,  looking  toward  the  door  of 
our  apartment  —  "I  am  now  awaiting  a  person  who,  although  per- 
haps not  the  perpetrator  of  these  butcheries,  must  have  been  in 
some  measure  implicated  in  their  perpetration.  Of  the  worst  por- 
tion of  the  crimes  committed,  it  is  probable  that  he  is  innocent. 
I  hope  that  I  am  right  in  this  supposition ;  for  upon  it  I  build  my 
expectation  of  reading  the  entire  riddle.  I  look  for  the  man 
here  —  in  this  room  —  every  moment.  It  is  true  that  he  may 
not  arrive  ;  but  the  probability  is  that  he  will.  Should  he  come, 
it  will  be  necessary  to  detain  him.  Here  are  pistols ;  and 
we  both  know  how  to  use  them  when  occasion  demands  their 
use." 

I  took  the  pistols,  scarcely  knowing  what  I  did,  or  believing 
what  I  heard,  while  Dupin  went  on,  very  much  as  if  in  a  soliloquy, 
I  have  already  spoken  of  his  abstract  manner  at  such  times. 
His  discourse  was  addressed  to  myself;  but  his  voice,  although 
by  no  means  loud,  had  that  intonation  which   is  commonly  em- 


Jj 


™ 


* 


f 


I:: 


H 


286 


AMUKICAN  PKOSF. 


l)l()yf(l  in  spcakiiiK  to  Mome  one  nt  a  ureal  (lislance      His  eyes, 
vacant  in  exprrssioii,  ri-j^ardeil  only  thf  wall. 

"That  the  voiies  lu-ard  in  contention,"  he  said,  "by  the  party 
upon  the  stairs,  were  not  the  voices  of  the  women  tiiemselves, 
was  fully  provivj  by  the  evidence.  I'his  relieves  us  of  all  doubt 
upon  the  ipicslion  whether  the  old  lady  could  have  first  destroyed 
the  daugiiler,  and  afterward  have  coniniitted  suicide.  I  speak  of 
this  point  <  hiclly  for  the  sake  of  method  ;  for  the  strength  of 
Madam  l.'ICspanaye  would  have  been  utterly  iinecpial  to  the  task 
of  thrustinj;  her  daughter's  corpse  up  the  chimney  as  it  was  found  ; 
and  the  nature  of  the  wounds  upon  her  own  person  entirely  pre- 
clude the  idea  of  self-destruction.  Murtler,  then,  has  been  com- 
mitted by  some  third  party  ;  and  the  voices  of  this  third  i)arty 
were  those  heanl  in  contention.  Let  me  now  advert  —  not  to  the 
whole  testimony  respecting  these  voices  —  but  to  what  was/<-<7///rtr 
in  that  testimony.     Did  you  observe  anything  peculiar  about  it?" 

I  remarked  that,  while  all  the  witnesses  agreed  in  supposing  the 
gruff  voice  to  be  that  of  a  Frenchman,  there  was  much  disagree- 
ment in  regard  to  the  shrill,  or,  as  one  individual  termed  it,  the 
harsh  voice. 

"  That  was  the  evidence  itself,"  said  Dupin,  "  but  it  was  not  the 
peculiarity  of  the  evidence.  You  have  observed  nothing  distinc- 
tive. Yet  there  urns  something  to  be  observed.  The  witnesses, 
as  you  remark,  agreed  alwut  the  gruff  voice  ;  they  were  here  unan- 
imous. Hut  in  regard  to  the  shrill  voice,  the  peculiarity  is  — 
not  that  they  disagreed -but  that,  while  an  Italian,  an  English- 
man, a  Spaniard,  a  Hollander,  and  a  Frenchman  attempted  to 
describe  it,  each  one  spoke  of  it  as  that  0/  a  foreif^ner.  Each  is 
sure  that  it  was  not  the  voice  of  one  of  his  own  countrymen. 
Each  likens  it  —  not  to  the  voice  of  an  individual  of  any  nation 
with  whose  language  he  is  conversant  —  but  the  converse.  The 
Frenchman  supposes  it  the  voice  of  a  Spaniard,  and  '  might  have 
distinguished  some  viox<\^  had  he  been  acquainted  ivith  the  Spanish.' 
The  Dutchman  maintains  it  to  have  been  that  of  a  Frenchman ; 
but  we  find  it  stated  that  '  not  understanding  French,  this  witness 
was  examined  throui^h  an  interpreter.'  The  linglishman  thinks  it 
the  voice  of  a  (ierman,  and  '  does  not  understand  German.'  The 
Spaniard  '  is  sure  '  that  it  was  that  of  an  Englishman,  but  'judges 


KDGAti  All. AN  ran 


2H7 


His  eycii, 

y  the  party 

tliL'iuselves, 
L)f  all  (iouht 
St  destroyed 
I  speiik  of 
strength  of 
to  the  task 
t  was  found ; 
entirely  pre- 
heen  corn- 
third  i)arty 
—  not  to  the 
w:^"!,  peculiar 
r  aI)out  it?" 
ipposing  the 
ch  disagrec- 
rnied  it,  the 

t  was  not  the 
ling  distinc- 
le  witnesses, 
e  here  unan- 
uliarity  is  — 
an  English- 
Lttempted  to 
er.  Each  is 
countrymen, 
if  any  nation 
averse.  The 
'  might  have 
(he  Spunish.' 
Frenchman ; 
,  this  witness 
nan  thinks  it 
nnan.'  The 
,  but  'judges 


by  the  intonation'  altogether,  '  hk  he  has  no  knowlfil^e  of  the  luif;- 
iish:  'I'he  Italian  believes  it  the  voice  of  a  Russian,  but  'has 
never  conversed  ivith  a  native  of  Russia:  A  second  Frenchman 
differs,  moreover,  with  the  first,  and  is  positive  that  the  voice 
was  that  of  an  Italian  ;  but,  not  l>eini;  ,ot;ni:ant  of  that  toni^ue, 
is,  like  the  Spanir.rtI,  'convinced  by  the  intonation."  Now,  how 
strangely  unusual  nuist  th:it  voice  have  really  been,  about  which 
such  testimony  as  this  .-,  '//y  have  been  elicited  !  —  in  whose  tones, 
even,  deni/ens  of  the  uve  great  divisions  of  lOurope  could  rec- 
ognize nothing  familiar!  You  will  say  that  it  might  have  been 
the  voice  of  an  Asiatic  — of  an  African.  Neither  Asiatics  nor 
Africans  al)ound  in  I'aris  ;  but,  without  denying  the  inference,  I 
will  now  merely  call  your  attention  to  three  points.  'I'lic  voice  is 
termed  by  one  witness  '  harsh  rather  than  shrill.'  It  is  represented 
by  two  others  to  have  been  '  quick  and  unequal:  No  words  — 
no  sounils  resembling  words  —  were  by  any  witness  mentioned  a.s 
distinguishable. 

"  I  know  not,  "  continued  Dupin, "  what  impression  I  may  have 
made,  so  far,  upon  your  own  understanding  ;  but  I  do  not  hesitate 
to  say  that  legitimate  deductions  even  from  this  |)ortion  of  the 
testimony  — the  portion  respecting  the  gruff  and  shrill  voices  — 
are  in  themselves  sufficient  to  engender  a  suspicion  which  should 
give  direction  to  all  farther  progress  in  the  investigation  of  the 
mystery.  1  said  '  legitimate  deductions  ' ;  but  my  meaning  is  not 
thus  fully  expressed.  I  designed  to  imply  that  the  deductions  are 
the  sole  proper  ones,  and  that  the  suspicion  arises  inevitably  from 
them  as  the  single  result.  What  the  suspicion  is,  however,  I  will 
not  say  just  yet.  I  merely  wish  you  to  bear  in  mind  that,  with 
myself,  it  was  sufficiently  forcible  to  give  a  definite  form  —  a  certain 
tendency  —  to  my  inquiries  in  the  chamber. 

"Let  us  now  transport  ourselves,  in  fancy,  to  this  chamber. 
What  shall  we  first  seek  here?  The  means  of  egress  employed  by 
the  murderers.  It  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  neither  of  us 
believe  in  preternatural  events.  Madame  anil  Mademoiselle 
L'Espanaye  were  not  destroyed  by  spirits.  The  doers  of  the 
deed  were  material,  and  escaped  materially.  Then  how  ?  Fortu- 
nately there  is  but  one  mode  of  reasoning  upon  the  point,  and 
that  mode  must  lead  us  to  a  definite  decision.  — l^t  us  examine, 


288 


AMERICAN  PROSR 


\\\- 


each  by  each,  the  possible  means  of  egress.  It  is  clear  that  the 
assassins  were  in  !:he  room  where  Mademoiselle  L'Pspanaye 
was  found,  or  at  least  in  the  room  adjoining,  when  the  party 
ascended  the  stairs.  It  is  then  only  from  these  two  apartments 
that  we  have  to  seek  issues.  The  poHce  have  laid  bare  the  floors, 
tlie  ceiUngs,  and  the  masonry  of  the  walls,  in  every  direction.  No 
secret  issues  could  have  escaped  their  vigilance.  But,  not  trust- 
ing to  their  eyes,  I  examined  with  my  own.  There  were,  then,  no 
secret  issues.  Both  doors  leading  from  the  rooms  into  the  passage 
were  securely  locked,  with  the  keys  inside.  Let  us  turn  to  the 
chimneys.  These,  although  of  ordinary  width  for  some  eight  or 
ten  feet  above  the  hearths,  will  not  admit,  throughout  their  extent, 
the  body  of  a  large  cat.  The  impossibility  of  egress,  by  means 
already  stated,  being  tlius  absolute,  we  are  reduced  to  the  windows. 
Through  those  of  the  front  room  no  one  could  have  escaped  with- 
out notice  from  the  crowd  in  the  street.  The  murderers  must  have 
passed,  tlum,  through  those  of  the  back  room.  Now,  brought  to 
this  conclusion  in  so  unequivocal  a  manner  as  we  are,  it  is  not  our 
part,  as  reasoners,  to  reject  it  on  account  of  apparent  impossibilities. 
It  is  only  left  for  us  to  prove  that  these  apparent  '  impossibilies' 
are,  in  reality,  not  such. 

"Tiiere  are  two  windows  in  the  chamber.  One  of  them  is 
unobstructed  by  furniture,  and  is  wholly  visible.  The  lower  por- 
tion of  the  other  is  hidden  from  view  by  the  head  of  the  unwieldy 
bedstead  which  is  thrust  close  up  against  it.  The  former  was 
found  securely  fastened  from  within.  It  resisted  the  utmost  force 
of  those  who  en'leavored  to  raise  it.  A  large  gimlet-hole  had  been 
pierced  in  its  '.rame  to  the  left,  and  a  very  stout  nail  was  found 
fitted  therein,  nearly  to  the  head.  Upon  examining  the  other 
window,  a  similar  nail  tvas  seen  similarly  fitted  in  it ;  and  a  vigor- 
ous attempt  to  raise  this  sash,  failed  also.  The  police  were  now 
entirely  satisfied  that  egress  had  not  been  in  these  directions. 
And,  therefore,  it  was  thought  a  matter  of  supererogation  to  with- 
draw the  nail  and  open  the  windows. 

"  My  own  examination  was  somewhat  more  piarticular,  and  was 
so  for  the  reason  I  have  just  given ;  because  here  it  was,  I  knew^ 
that  all  apparent  impossibilities  must  be  proved  to  be  not  such  in 
reality. 


clear  that  the 
le  L'rispanaye 
'hen  the  party 
;wo  apartments 
bare  the  floors, 
direction.     No 

But,  not  triist- 
j  were,  then,  no 
nto  the  passage 

us  turn  to  the 

some  eight  or 
)ut  their  extent, 
ress,  by  means 
to  the  windows, 
e  escaped  with- 
erers  must  have 
fow,  brought  to 
ire,  it  is  not  our 
t  impossibilities. 
:  '  impossibilies ' 

)ne  of  them  is 
The  lower  por- 
of  the  unwieldy 
rhe  former  was 
he  utmost  force 
t-hole  had  been 
nail  was  found 
lining  the  other 
it ;  and  a  vigor- 
lolice  were  now 
hese  directions, 
agatiou  to  with- 

rticular,  and  was 
it  was,  I  knew^ 
be  not  such  in 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


289 


"  I  proceeded  to  think  thus  —  a  posteriori.  The  murderers  did 
escape  from  one  of  these  windows.  Tiiis  l)eing  so,  they  could  not 
have  refastened  the  sashes  from  the  inside,  as  they  were  found 
fitstened  :  the  consideration  which  put  a  stop,  tlirougii  its  obvious- 
ness, to  the  scrutiny  of  the  police  in  this  quarter.  Yet  the  sashes 
7iiere  fastened.  They  iiiiist,  then,  have  the  power  of  fastening 
themselves.  There  was  no  esc:ii)e  from  this  conclusion.  I  stepped 
to  the  unobstructed  casement,  withdrew  the  nail  with  some  diffi- 
culty, and  attempted  to  raise  the  sash.  It  resisted  all  uiy  efforts, 
as  I  had  anticipated.  A  concealed  spring  must,  I  now  knew,  exist ; 
and  this  corroboration  of  my  idea  convinced  me  tliat  my  premises, 
at  least,  were  correct,  however  mysterious  still  appeared  the  cir- 
cumstances attending  the  nails.  A  careful  search  ..oon  brought  to 
liglit  the  hidden  spring.  I  pressed  it,  and,  satisfied  with  the  dis- 
covery, forbore  to  upraise  the  sash. 

"  I  now  replaced  the  nail  and  regarded  it  attentively.  A  person 
passing  ou!.  through  this  window  might  have  reclosed  it,  and  the 
spring  would  have  caught  —  but  the  nail  could  not  have  been  re- 
placed. The  conclusion  was  plain,  and  agai'i  narrowed  in  the 
field  of  my  investigations.  The  assassins  must  have  escaped 
through  the  other  window.  Supposing,  then,  the  springs  upon 
each  sash  to  be  the  same,  as  was  probable,  there  must  be  found  a 
difference  between  the  nails,  or  at  least  between  the  modes  of  their 
fixture,  (letting  upon  the  sacking  of  the  bedstead,  I  looked  over 
the  head-board  minutely  at  the  second  casement.  Passing  my 
hand  down  behind  the  board,  I  readily  discovered  and  pressed 
the  spring,  which  was,  as  I  had  supposed,  identical  in  character  with 
its  neighbor.  I  now  looked  at  the  nail.  It  was  as  stout  as  the 
other,  and  apparently  fitted  in  the  same  manner —  driven  in  nearly 
up  to  the  head. 

"  You  will  say  that  I  was  puzzled  ;  but,  if  you  think  so,  you  must 
have  misunderstood  the  nature  of  the  inductions.  To  use  a  sport- 
ing phrase,  I  had  not  been  once  '  at  fault.'  The  scent  had  never 
for  an  instant  been  lost.  There  was  no  flaw  in  any  link  of  the 
chain.  I  had  traced  the  secret  to  its  ultimate  result,  —  and  that 
result  was  the  nail.  It  had,  I  say,  in  every  respect,  the  appearance 
of  its  fellow  in  the  other  window ;  but  this  fact  was  an  absolute 
nullity  (conclusive  as  it  might  seem  to  be)  when  compared  with 


290 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


the  consideration  that  here,  at  this  point,  terminated  the  clew. 
•There  must  be  something  wrong,'  I  said,  'about  the  nail."  I 
touched  it ;  and  the  head,  with  about  a  quarter  of  an  inch  of  tlie 
sliank,  came  off  in  my  fingers.  The  rest  of  tiie  shank  was  in  the 
gimlet-hole,  where  it  had  been  broken  off.  The  fracture  was  an 
old  one  (for  its  edges  were  incrusted  with  rust),  and  had  appar- 
ently been  accomplished  by  the  blow  of  a  hammer,  which  had  par- 
tially embedded,  in  the  top  of  the  bottom  sash,  the  head  portion 
of  the  nail.  I  now  carefully  replaced  this  head  portion  in  the  in- 
dentation whence  I  had  taken  it,  and  the  resemblance  to  a  per- 
fect nail  was  complete  —  the  fissure  was  invisible.  Pressing  the 
spring,  I  gently  raised  the  sash  for  a  few  inches ;  the  head  went 
up  with  it,  remaining  firm  in  its  bed.  I  closed  the  window,  and 
the  semblance  of  the  whole  nail  was  again  perfect. 

"The  riddle,  so  far,  was  now  unriddled.  The  assassin  had 
escaped  through  the  window  which  looked  ujwn  the  bed.  Drop- 
ping of  its  own  accord  upon  his  exit  (or  perhaps  purposely  closed), 
it  had  become  fastened  by  the  spring;  and  it  was  the  reten- 
tion of  this  spring  which  had  been  mistaken  by  the  police  for 
that  of  the  nail  —  further  inquiry  being  thus  considered  unneces- 
sary. 

"  The  next  question  is  that  of  the  mode  of  descent.  Upon  this 
point  I  have  been  satisfied  in  my  walk  with  you  around  the  build- 
iig.  About  five  feet  and  a  half  from  the  casement  in  question 
there  runs  a  lightning-rod.  From  this  rod  it  would  have  been 
impossible  for  any  one  to  reach  the  window  itself,  to  say  nothing 
of  entering  it.  I  observed,  however,  that  the  shutters  of  the 
fourth  story  were  of  the  peculiar  kind  called  by  Parisian  carpen- 
ters/^rm^w —  a  kind  rarely  employed  at  the  present  day,  but  fre- 
quently seen  upon  very  old  mansions  at  Lyons  and  Bordeaux. 
They  are  in  the  form  of  an  ordinary  door  (a  single,  not  a  folding 
door),  except  that  the  lower  half  is  latticed  or  worked  in  open 
trellis  —  thus  affording  an  excellent  hold  for  ihe  hands.  In  the 
present  instance  these  shutters  are  fully  three  feet  and  a  half  broad. 
When  we  saw  them  from  the  rear  of  the  house,  they  were  both 
about  half  open  —  that  is  to  say,  they  stood  off  at  right  angles 
from  the  wall.  It  is  probable  that  the  police,  as  well  as  myself, 
examined  the  back  of  the  tenement ;  but,  if  so,  in  looking  at  these 


J. 


ated  the  clew, 
t  the  nail."  I 
an  inch  of  the 
lank  was  in  the 
fracture  was  an 
nd  had  appar- 
which  had  par- 
e  head  jwrtion 
»rtion  in  the  in- 
lance  to  a  per- 
Pressing  the 
the  head  went 
le  window,  and 

e  assassin  had 
le  bed.  Drop- 
rpostly  closed), 
was  the  reten- 
the  police  for 
dered  unneces- 

:nt.  Upon  this 
ound  the  build- 
snt  in  question 
)uld  have  been 

to  say  nothing 
shutters  of  the 
>arisian  carpen- 
;nt  day,  but  fre- 
and  Bordeaux. 
le,  not  a  folding 
rorked  in  open 
hands.  In  the 
nd  a  half  broad, 
they  were  both 

at  right  angles 
}  well  as  myself, 
looking  at  these 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


291 


fermdes  in  the  line  of  their  breadth  (as  they  must  have  done), 
they  did  not  perceive  this  great  breadth  itself,  or,  at  all  events, 
failed  to  take  it  into  due  consideration.  In  fact,  having  once  sat- 
isfied themselves  that  no  egress  could  have  been  made  in  this 
quarter,  they  would  naturally  bestow  here  a  very  cursory  exami- 
nation. It  was  clear  to  me,  hovever,  that  the  sliutter  belonging  to 
the  window  at  the  head  of  the  bed  would,  if  swung  fully  back  to 
the  wall,  reach  to  within  two  feet  of  the  lightning-rod.  It  was 
also  evident  that,  by  exertion  of  a  very  unusual  degree  of  activity 
and  courage,  an  entrance  into  the  window,  from  the  rod,  might 
have  been  thus  effected.  By  reaching  to  the  distance  3f  two  feet 
and  a  half  (we  now  suppose  the  shutter  open  to  its  whole  extent), 
a  robber  might  have  taken  a  firm  grasp  upon  the  trellis-work. 
Letting  go,  then,  his  hold  upon  the  rod,  placing  his  feet  securely 
against  the  wall,  and  springing  boldly  from  it,  he  might  have 
swung  the  shutter  so  as  to  close  it,  and,  if  we  imagine  the  win- 
dow open  at  the  time,  might  even  have  swung  himself  into  the 
room. 

"  I  wish  you  to  bear  especially  in  mind  that  I  have  spoken  of  a 
very  unusual  degree  of  activity  as  requisite  to  success  in  so  hazard- 
ous and  so  difficult  a  feat.  It  is  my  design  to  show  you  first,  that 
the  thing  might  possibly  have  been  accomplished  :  but,  secondly 
and  chiefly,  I  wish  to  impress  upon  your  understanding  the  very 
extraordinary,  the  almost  preternatural,  character  of  that  agility 
which  could  have  accomplished  it. 

"  You  will  say,  no  doubt,  using  the  language  of  the  law,  that  '  to 
make  out  my  case '  I  should  rather  undervalue  than  insist  upon  a 
full  estimation  of  the  activity  required  in  this  matter.  This  may 
be  the  practice  in  law,  but  it  is  not  the  usage  of  reason.  My  ulti- 
mate object  is  only  the  truth.  My  immediate  purpose  is  to  lead 
you  to  place  in  juxtaposition  that  very  tiinisiial  activity,  of  which 
I  have  just  spoken,  with  that  vciy  peculiar  ^\\n\\  (or  harsh)  and 
unequal  voice,  about  whose  nationality  no  two  persons  could  be 
found  to  agree,  and  in  whose  utterance  no  syllabification  could  be 
detected." 

At  these  words  a  vague  and  half-formed  conception  of  the 
meaning  of  Dupin  flitted  over  my  mind.  I  seemed  to  be  upon 
the  verge  of  comprehension,  without  power  to  comprehend ;  as 


i  '^ 


292 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


men,  at  times,  find  themselves  upon  the  brink  of  remembrance, 
without  l)eing  able,  in  tlie  end,  to  remember.  My  friend  went  on 
with  his  discourse. 

"  You  will  see,"  he  said,  "  that  1  have  shifted  the  question  from 
the  mode  of  egress  to  that  of  ingress.  It  was  my  design  to  con- 
vey the  idea  that  both  were  effected  in  the  same  manner,  at  the 
same  point.  Let  us  now  revert  to  the  interior  of  the  room.  Let 
us  survey  the  appearances  here.  The  drawers  of  the  bureau,  it 
is  said,  hp.;!  been  rifled,  although  many  articles  of  apparel  still 
remained  within  them.  The  conclusion  here  is  absurd.  It  is  a 
mere  guess  —  a  very  silly  one  —  and  no  more.  How  are  we  to 
know  that  the  articles  foimd  in  the  drawers  were  not  all  these 
drawers  had  originally  contained?  Madame  I.'Espanaye  and  her 
daughter  lived  an  exceedingly  retired  life  —  saw  no  company, 
seldom  went  out,  had  little  use  for  numerous  changes  of  habili- 
ment. Those  found  were  at  least  of  as  good  quality  as  any  likely 
to  be  possessed  by  these  ladies.  If  a  thief  had  taken  any,  why 
did  he  not  take  the  best  —  why  did  he  not  take  all?  In  a  word, 
why  did  he  abandon  four  thousand  francs  in  gold  to  encumber 
himself  with  a  bundle  of  linen?  The  gold  was  abandoned. 
Nearly  the  whole  sum  mentioned  by  Monsieur  Mignaud,  the 
banker,  was  discovered,  in  bags,  upon  the  floor.  I  wish  you, 
therefore,  to  discard  from  your  thoughts  the  blundering  idea  of 
fiictive,  engendered  ii  the  brains  of  the  police  by  that  portion  o*" 
thi  evidence  which  speaks  of  money  delivered  at  the  door  of  the 
house.  Coincidences  ten  times  as  remarkable  as  this  (the  deliv- 
ery of  the  money,  and  murder  con  ~iitted  within  three  days  upon 
the  party  receiving  it)  happen  to  all  of  us  every  hour  of  our  lives, 
without  attracting  even  momentary  notice.  Coincidences,  in  gen- 
eral, are  great  stumbling-blocks  in  the  way  of  that  class  of  thinkers 
who  have  been  educated  to  know  nothing  of  the  theory  of  proba- 
bilities :  that  theory  to  which  the  most  glorious  objects  of  human 
research  are  indebted  for  the  most  glorious  of  illustration.  In  the 
present  instance,  had  the  gold  been  gone,  the  fact  of  its  delivery 
three  rhys  before  would  have  formed  something  more  than  a  coin- 
cidence. It  would  have  been  corroborative  of  this  idea  of  motive. 
But,  imder  the  real  cir'-vmstances  of  the  case,  if  we  were  to  sup- 
pose gold  the  motive    li   this  outrage,  we  must  also  imagine  the 


^ 


EPaih'   .l/./.A.V  I'OE 


293 


remembrance, 
friend  went  on 

question  from 
design  to  con- 
manner,  at  the 
le  room.     Let 

the  bureau,  it 
if  apparel  still 
jsurd.  It  is  a 
-low  are  we  to 
:  not  all  these 
anaye  and  her 

no  company, 
nges  of  habili- 
ty  as  any  likely 
aken  any,  why 
I  ?  In  a  word, 
1  to  encumber 
IS   abandoned. 

Mignaud,  the 
I  wish  you, 
lering  idea  of 
hat  portion  o*" 
de  door  of  the 
Ills  (the  deliv- 
iree  days  upon 
lur  of  our  lives, 
lences,  in  gen- 
lass  of  thinkers 
eory  of  proba- 
jects  of  human 
ration.  In  the 
of  its  delivery 
re  than  a  coin- 
idea  of  motive. 
e  were  to  sup- 
;o  imagine  the 


l)erpetrutor  so  vacillafMig  an  idiot  as  to  have  abandoned  his  gold 
and  his  motive  together. 

"  Keeping  now  steadily  in  mintl  the  i)oiiUs  to  which  I  have 
diawn  your  attention  —  that  peculiar  voice,  tliat  unusual  agility, 
and  that  startling  absence  of  motive  in  a  murder  so  singularly 
atrocious  as  this  —  let  us  glance  at  the  butchery  itself.  Here  is  a 
woman  strangled  to  death  by  manual  strength,  and  thrust  uji  a 
chimney,  head  downward.  Ordinary  assassins  employ  no  such 
modes  of  murder  as  this.  Least  of  all,  do  they  thus  dispose  o."  the 
murdered.  In  the  manner  of  thrusting  the  corjise  up  the  chim- 
ney, you  will  admit  that  there  was  something  excessively  outre  — 
something  altogether  irreconcilable  with  our  common  notions  of 
human  action,  even  when  we  suppose  the  actors  the  most  de- 
praved of  men.  Think,  too,  how  great  must  have  been  that 
strength  which  could  have  thrust  the  body  ///  such  an  ajierture 
so  forcibly  that  the  united  vigor  of  several  persons  was  found 
barely  sufficient  to  drag  it  down! 

"Turn,  now,  to  other  indications  of  the  employment  of  a  vigor 
most  marvellous.  On  the  hearth  were  thick  tresses  —  very  thick 
tresses  —  of  gray  human  hair.  These  had  been  torn  out  by  the 
roots.  You  are  aware  of  the  great  force  necessary  in  tearing  thus 
from  the  head  even  twenty  or  thirty  hairs  together.  Vou  saw  the 
locks  in  question  as  well  as  myself.  Their  roots  (a  hideous  sight !) 
were  clotted  with  fragments  of  the  flesh  of  the  scalp  :  sure  token 
of  the  prodigious  power  which  had  been  exerted  in  uprooting 
perhaps  half  a  million  of  hairs  at  a  time.  The  throat  of  the  (Md  lady 
was  not  merely  cut,  but  the  head  absolutely  severed  from  the  body  : 
the  instrument  was  a  mere  razor.  I  wish  you  also  to  look  at  the 
brutal  ferocity  of  these  deeds.  Of  the  bruises  upon  the  body  of 
Madame  L'Espanaye  I  do  not  speak.  Monsieur  Dumas,  and  his 
worthy  coadjutor  Monsieur  fttienne,  have  pronounced  that  they 
were  inflicted  by  some  obtuse  instrument ;  and  so  far  these  gentle- 
men are  very  correct.  The  obtuse  instrument  was  clearly  the 
stone  pavement  in  the  yard,  upon  which  the  victim  had  fallen 
from  the  window  which  looked  in  upon  the  bed.  This  idea, 
however  simple  it  may  now  seem,  escaped  the  police  for  the 
same  reason  that  the  breadth  of  the  shutters  escaped  them  — 
because,  by  the  affair  of  the  nails,  their  perceptions  had  been 


-"'!«*K-:r:.5?Ysr;--'< 


w 


294 


AMERICAN  rROSE 


n- 


hermetically  sealed  against  the  possibility  of  the  windows  having 
ever  been  opened  at  all. 

"  If  now,  in  adilition  to  alt  these  things,  you  have  properly 
reflected  upon  the  odd  disorder  of  the  chamber,  we  have  gone 
so  far  as  to  combine  the  ideas  of  an  agility  astounding,  a  strength 
superhuman,  a  ferocity  brutal,  a  butchery  without  motive,  a 
givfesijueiie  in  horror  absolutely  alien  from  humanity,  and  a  voice 
foreign  in  tone  to  the  ears  of  men  of  many  nations,  and  de- 
void of  all  distinct  or  intelligible  syllabification.  What  result, 
then,  has  ensued?  What  impression  have  I  made  upon  your 
fancy  ?  " 

I  felt  a  creeping  of  the  flesh  as  Dupin  asked  me  the  question. 
"A  madman,"  I  said,  "has  done  this  deed  —  some  raving  maniac, 
escaped  from  a  neighboring  Maison  ik  Sanfe." 

"  In  some  respects,"  he  replied,  "  your  idea  is  not  irrelevant. 
But  the  voices  of  madmen,  even  in  their  wildest  paroxysms,  are 
never  found  to  tally  with  that  peculiar  voice  heard  ujwn  the  stairs. 
Madmen  are  of  some  nation,  and  their  language,  however  inco- 
herent in  its  words,  has  always  the  coherence  of  syllabification. 
Besides,  the  hair  of  a  madman  is  not  such  as  I  now  hold  in  my 
hand.  I  disentangled  this  little  tuft  from  the  rigidly  clutched 
fingers  of  Madame  I/Espanaye.  Tell  me  what  you  can  make 
of  it." 

"  Dupin  ! "  I  said,  completely  unnerved ;  "  this  hair  is  most 
unusual  —  this  is  no  /luinan  hair." 

"  I  have  not  asserted  that  it  is,"  said  he ;  "  but,  before  we 
decide  this  point,  I  wish  you  to  glance  at  the  little  sketch  I  have 
here  traced  upon  this  paper.  It  is  a  fac-simile  drawing  of  what 
has  been  described  in  one  portion  of  the  testimony  as  'dark 
bruises,  and  deep  indentations  of  finger  nails,'  upon  the  throat 
of  Mademoiselle  L'Espanaye,  and  in  another  (by  Messrs.  Dumas 
and  fetienne),  as  a  'series  of  livid  spots,  evidently  the  impression 
of  fingers.' 

"You  will  perceive,"  continued  my  friend,  spreading  out  the 
paper  upon  the  table  before  us,  "  that  this  drawing  gives  the  idea 
of  a  firm  and  fixed  hold.  There  is  no  slipping  apparent.  Each 
finger  has  retained  —  possibly  until  the  death  of  the  victim  — 
the  fearful  grasp  by  which  it  originally  imbedded  itself.     Attempt, 


windows  having 

have  properly 
we  have  gone 
ling,  a  strength 
iQUt  motive,  a 
ty,  and  a  voice 
tions,  and  de- 
What  result, 
ide  upon  your 

e  the  question, 
raving  maniac, 

not  irrelevant, 
paroxysms,  are 
iijwn  the  stairs. 
,  however  inco- 

syllabification. 
low  hold  in  my 
igidly  clutched 
you  can  make 

s  hair  is  most 

3ut,  before  we 
2  sketch  I  have 
rawing  of  what 
iiony  as  'dark 
pon  the  throat 
Messrs.  Dumas 
the  impression 

eading  out  the 
;  gives  the  idea 
:)parent.  Each 
f  the  victim  — 
self.     Attempt, 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


295 


now,  to  place  all  your  fingers,  at  the  same  time,  in  the  respective 
impressions  as  you  see  them." 
I  made  the  attem[)t  in  v,.in. 

"  We  are  possibly  not  giving  this  matter  a  fair  trial,"  he  said. 
"  The  paper  is  spread  out  upon  a  plane  surface ;  but  the  human 
throat  is  cylindrical.  Here  is  a  billet  of  wood,  the  circumference 
of  which  is  about  that  of  the  throat.  Wrap  the  drawing  around  it, 
and  try  the  experiment  again." 

I  did  so ;  but  the  difficulty  was  even  more  obvious  than  before. 
"This,"  I  said,  "  is  the  mark  of  no  human  hand." 
"Read  now,"  replied  Dujiin,  "  this  passage  from  Cuvier." 
It  was  a  minute  anatomical  and  generally  descriptive  account  of 
the  large  fulvous  ourang-outang  of  the  fi^ast  Indian  Islands.     The 
gigantic  stature,  the  prodigious  strength  and  activity,  the  wild 
ferocity,  and  the  imitative  propensities  of  tliese  mammalia  are 
sufficiently  well  known  to  all.     I  understood  the  full  horrors  of 
the  murder  at  once. 

[From  The  Murders  in  the  Rue  Mors;ue,  1841.  Reprinted,  by  permission 
of  Herbert  S.  Stone  and  Co.,  from  Works,  vol.  iii,  pp.  74-89.] 


THE  MASQUE  OF  THE   RED  DEATH 

But,  in  spite  of  these  things,  it  was  a  gay  and  magnificent 
revel.  The  tastes  of  the  Prince  were  peculiar.  He  had  a  fine 
eye  for  colors  and  effects.  He  disregarded  the  decora  of  mere 
fashion.  His  plans  were  bold  and  fiery,  and  his  conceptions 
glowed  with  barbaric  lustre.  There  are  some  who  would  have 
thought  him  mad.  His  followers  felt  that  he  was  not.  It  was 
necessary  to  hear  and  see  and  touch  him  to  be  sure  that  he  was 
not. 

He  had  directed,  in  great  part,  the  movable  embellishments  of 
the  seven  chambers,  upon  occasion  of  this  great /<?/<?  ,•  and  it  was 
his  own  guiding  taste  which  had  given  character  to  the  masquer- 
aders.  Be  sure  they  were  grotesque.  There  were  much  glare 
and  glitter  and  piquancy  and  phantasm  —  much  of  what  has  been 
since  seen  in  Hernani.  There  were  arabesque  figures  with  un- 
suited  limbs  and  appointments.     There  were  delirious  fancies 


296 


AMERICAN  I'KOSE 


such  as  the  miuhnan  fashions.  I'liere  was  mnch  of  the  beautiful, 
much  of  the  wanton,  much  of  the  bizarre,  something  of  the  ter- 
ril)le,  aiid  not  a  little  of  that  which  might  have  excited  ilisgust. 
To  and  fro  in  the  seven  chambers  there  stalked,  in  lact,  a  multi- 
tude of  dreams.  And  these  —  the  dreams  —  writhed  in  and 
about,  taking  hue  from  the  rooms,  and  causing  the  wild  music 
of  the  orchestra  to  seem  as  the  echo  of  their  steps.  And,  anon, 
there  strikes  the  ebony  clock  which  stands  in  the  hall  of  the 
velvet.  And  then,  for  a  moment,  all  is  still,  and  all  is  silent 
save  the  voice  of  the  clock.  The  dreams  are  stiff  frozen  as  they 
stand.  Hut  the  echoes  of  the  chime  die  away  —  they  have  en- 
dured but  an  instant  —  and  a  light,  half-subdued  laughter  floats 
after  them  as  they  depart.  And  now  again  the  music  swells, 
and  the  dreams  live,  and  writhe  to  and  fro  more  merrily  than 
ever,  taking  hue  from  the  many  tinted  windows  through  which 
stream  the  rays  from  the  tripods.  But  to  the  chamber  which  lies 
most  westwardly  of  the  seven,  there  are  now  none  of  the  maskers 
who  venture:  for  the  night  is  waning  away,  and  there  flows  a 
ruddier  light  through  the  blood-colored  panes;  and  the  blackness 
of  the  sable  drapery  appalls;  and  to  him  whose  foot  falls  upon 
the  sable  carpet,  there  comes  from  the  near  clock  of  ebony  a 
nniflled  peal  n^ore  solemnly  emphatic  than  any  which  reaches 
their  ears  who  indulge  in  the  more  remote  gayeties  of  the  other 
ai)artments. 

Hut  these  other  apartments  were  densely  crowded,  and  in  them 
beat  feverishly  the  heart  of  life.  And  the  revel  went  whirlingly 
on,  imtil  at  length  there  commenced  the  sounding  of  midnight 
upon  the  clock.  And  then  the  music  ceased,  as  I  have  told; 
and  the  evolutions  of  the  waltzers  were  quieted;  and  there  was 
an  uneasy  cessation  of  all  things  as  before.  But  now  there  were 
twelve  strokes  to  be  sounded  by  the  bell  of  the  clock;  and  thus  it 
happened,  perhaps,  that  more  of  thought  crept,  with  more  of 
time,  into  the  meditations  of  the  thoughtful  among  those  who 
revelled.  And  thus  too  it  happened,  perhaps,  that  before  the  last 
echoes  of  the  last  chime  had  utterly  sunk  into  silence,  there  were 
many  individuals  in  the  crowd  who  had  found  leisure  to  become 
aware  of  the  presence  of  a  masked  figure  which  had  arrested  the 
attention  of  no  single  individual  before.     And  the  rumor  of  this 


•iit 


f  the  beautiful, 
nnyi,  of  tlie  ter- 
xc.itcd  disgust. 
n  tact,  a  nuilti- 
ritlicd  in  and 
the  wild  music 
s.  And,  anon, 
he  hall  of  the 
1(1  all  is  silent 
[frozen  as  they 
-  they  have  en- 
laughter  floats 
:  music  swells, 
re  merrily  than 
through  which 
T)ber  which  lies 
of  the  maskers 
1  there  flows  a 
id  th2  blackness 
foot  falls  upon 
)ck  of  ebony  a 
which  reaches 
ies  of  the  other 

id,  and  in  them 
went  whirlingly 
ng  of  midnight 
is  I  have  told; 
;  and  there  was 
now  there  were 
ick;  and  thus  it 
,  with  more  of 
iiong  those  who 
t  before  the  last 
:nce,  there  were 
isure  to  become 
lad  arrested  the 
le  rumor  of  this 


RDGAK  A/.l.AtV  POE 


397 


new  presence  having  spread  itself  whisperingly  around,  there 
arose  at  length  from  the  whole  comjiany  a  buzz,  or  murmur,  ex- 
pressive of  disapprobation  and  surprise  —  then,  finally,  of  terror, 
of  horror,  and  of  disgust. 

In  an  assembly  of  phantasms  such  as  I  have  painted,  it  m.,y 
well  be  supposed  that  no  ordinary  appearance  could  have  excited 
such  sensation.  In  truth  thp  masquerade  license  of  the  night  was 
nearly  unlimited;  but  the  figure  in  question  had  out-Herodcd 
Herod,  and  gone  beyonii  the  bounds  of  even  the  Prince's  indefi- 
nite decorum.  There  are  chords  in  the  hearts  of  the  most  reck- 
less which  cannot  be  touched  without  emotion.  Kven  with  the 
utterly  lost,  to  whom  life  and  death  are  equally  jesls,  there  are 
matters  of  which  no  jest  can  be  made.  The  whole  company, 
indeed,  seemed  now  deeply  to  feel  that  in  the  costume  and  bear- 
ing of  the  stranger  neither  wit  nor  propriety  existed.  The  figure 
was  tall  and  gaunt,  and  shrouded  from  head  to  foot  in  the  habili- 
ments of  the  grave.  The  mask  which  concealed  the  visage  was 
made  so  nearly  to  resemble  the  countenance  of  a  stiffened  corpse 
that  the  closest  scrutiny  must  have  had  difficulty  in  detecting  the 
cheat.  And  yet  all  this  might  have  been  endured,  if  not  ap- 
proved, by  the  mad  revellers  around.  IJut  the  mummer  had  gone 
so  far  as  to  assume  the  type  of  the  Fed  Death.  His  vesture  was 
dabbled  in  fi/rwt/ — and  his  broad  briw,  with  all  the  features  of 
the  face,  was  besprinkled  with  the  scarlet  horror. 

When  the  eyes  of  Prince  Prospero  fell  upon  this  spectral  image 
(which  with  a  slow  and  solemn  movement,  as  if  more  fully  to 
sustain  its  rM;  stalked  to  and  fro  among  the  waitzers)  he  was  seen 
to  be  convulsed,  in  the  first  moment,  with  a  strong  shudder  either 
of  terror  or  distaste;  but,  in  the  next,  his  brow  reddened  with  rage. 

"Who  dares?"  he  demanded  hoarsely  of  the  courtiers  who 
stood  near  him  —  "who  dares  insult  us  with  this  blasphemous 
mockery  ?  Seize  him  and  unmask  him  —  that  we  may  know  whom 
we  have  to  hang  at  sunrise,  from  the  battlements !  " 

It  was  in  the  eastern  or  blue  chamber  in  which  stood  the  Prince 
Prospero  as  he  uttered  these  words.  They  rang  throughout  the 
seven  rooms  loudly  and  clearly  —  for  the  Prince  was  a  bold  and 
robust  man,  and  the  music  had  become  hushed  at  the  waving  of 
his  hand. 


m^ssittisi^^''"- 


298 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


It  was  in  tho  blue  room  where  stood  the  I'rinrc,  with  a  ;?roup 
of  pale  < oiirtiers  by  his  side.  At  first,  as  he  spoke,  there  was  a 
slight  rushing  ujovemci.t  rif  this  group  in  the  direction  of  the  in- 
truder, who  at  the  moment  was  also  near  at  hand,  and  now,  with 
deliberate  and  stately  stej),  made  closer  approach  to  the  speaker. 
Hut  from  a  certain  nameless  awe  with  which  the  mad  assumption 
of  the  mummer  had  inspired  the  whole  party,  there  were  found 
none  wli»  i)ut  forth  hands  to  seize  him;  so  that,  unimpeded,  he 
passetl  within  a  yard  of  the  Prince's  person;  and,  while  the  vast 
assembly,  as  if  with  one  impidse,  shrank  from  the  centres  of  the 
rooms  to  the  walls,  he  made  his  way  uninterrui)tedly,  but  with 
the  same  solemn  and  measured  step  which  had  distinguished  him 
from  the  first,  through  the  blue  chamber  to  the  purple  — through 
the  purple  to  the  green  —  through  the  green  to  the  orange  — 
through  this  agnin  to  the  white  —  and  even  thence  to  the  violet, 
ere  a  decided  movement  had  been  made  to  arrest  him.  It  was 
then,  however,  that  the  Prince  Prospers,  maddening  with  rage 
and  the  shame  of  his  own  momentary  cowardice,  rushed  hurriedly 
through  the  six  chambers,  while  none  followed  him  on  account 
of  a  deadly  terror  that  had  seized  upon  all.  He  bore  aloft  a 
drawn  dagger,  and  had  approached,  in  rapid  impetuosity,  to 
within  three  or  four  feet  of  the  retreating  figure,  when  the  latter, 
having  attained  the  extremity  of  the  velvet  apartment,  turned 
suddenly  and  confronted  his  pursuer.  There  was  a  sharp  cry  — 
and  the  dagger  dropped  gleaming  upon  the  sable  carpet,  upon 
which,  instantly  afterwards,  fell  prostrate  in  death  the  Prince 
Prospero.  Then,  summoning  the  wild  courage  of  despair,  a 
throng  of  the  revellers  at  once  threw  themselves  into  the  black 
apartment,  and,  seizing  the  mummer,  whose  tall  figure  stood  erect 
and  motionless  within  the  shadow  of  the  ebony  clock,  gasjjcd  in 
unutterable  horror  at  finding  the  grave  cerements  and  corpse-like 
mask,  which  they  handled  with  so  violent  a  rudeness,  untenanted 
by  any  tangible  form. 

And  now  was  acknowledged  the  presence  of  the  Red  Death. 
He  had  come  like  a  thief  in  the  night.  And  one  by  one  dropped 
the  revellers  in  the  blood-bedewed  halls  of  their  revel,  and  died 
each  in  the  despairing  posture  of  his  fall.  And  the  life  of  the 
ebony  clock  went  out  with  that  of  the  last  of  the  gay.     And  the 


EDGAR  ALLAN  FOB 


299 


,  with  a  sjroup 
c,  there  was  a 
lion  of  the  in- 
iiml  now,  with 
o  the  si)caker. 
ad  assumption 
;re  were  found 
inimpeded,  he 
while  the  vast 
centres  of  the 
edly,  but  with 
inguished  him 
•pie  —  through 
the  orange  — 
:  to  the  violet, 
t  him.  It  was 
ling  with  rage 
shed  hurriedly 
im  on  account 
e  bore  aloft  a 
Tipetuosity,  to 
■hen  the  latter, 
tment,  turned 
a  sharp  cry  — 
;  carpet,  upon 
ith  the  Prince 
of  despair,  a 
into  the  black 
lire  stood  erect 
ock,  gasjjed  in 
nd  corpse-like 
ss,  untenanted 

le  Red  Death. 
»y  one  dropped 
evel,  and  died 
the  life  of  the 
gay.     And  the 


flames  of  the  tripo<ls  ex|)ircd.     And  Darkness  and  Decay  and 
the  Red  Death  held  illimitable  dominion  over  all. 

[Krom  J  he  Af,i!,/u,- of  tht  Ktd  Death,  1842.     kipriiUcil,  liy  pcrmlMJon  nf 
Herbert  S.  Stone  ami  Co.,  from  Worki,  vol.  i,  pp.  252-257.] 


THF.   PROSIi  TALE 

But  it  is  of  his  tales  that  I  desire  principally  to  speak.     The 
tale  proper,   in  my  opinion,  affords  uncjuestionably  the  fairest 
fiehl  for  the  exercise  of  the  loftiest  talent,  which  ran  bo  affordtul 
by  the  wide  domains  of  mere  prose.     Were  I  bidden  to  say  how 
the  highest  genius  could  be  most  advantageously  employed  for 
the  best  display  of  its  own  powers,  I  should  answer,  without  hesi- 
tation—in the  composition  of  a  rhymed  poem,  not  to  exceed  in 
length  what  might  be  perused  in  an  hour.     Within  this  limit 
alone  can  the  highest  order  of  true  poetry  exist.     I  need  only  here 
to  say,  upon  this  topic,  that,  in  almost  all  clas.ses  of  composition 
the  unity  of  effect  or  impression  is  a  point  of  the  greatest  impor- 
tance.    It  is  clear,  moreover,  that  this  unity  cannot  be  thoroughly 
preserved  in  productions  whose  perusal  cannot  be  completed  at 
one  sitting.    We  may  continue  the  reading  of  a  prose  composition, 
from  the  very  nature  of  prose  itself,  much  longer  than  we  can 
persevere,  to  any  good  purpose,  in  the  perusal  of  a  poem.     This 
latter,  if  truly  fulfilling  the  demands  of  the  poetic  sentiment,  in- 
duces an  exaltation  of  the  soul  which  cannot  be  long  sustained. 
All  high  excitements  are  necessarily  transient.     Thus  0  long  poem 
is  a  paradox.     And,  without  unity  of  impression,  the  deepest  ef- 
fects cannot  be  brought  about.     Epics  were  the  offspring  of  an 
itflperfect  sense  of  Art,  and  their  reign  is  no  more.     A  poem  too 
brief  may  produce  a  vivid,  but  never  an   intense  or  enduring 
impression.     Without  a  certain  continuity  of  effort  —  without  a 
certain  duration  or  repetition  of  purpose  —  the  soul  is  never 
deeply  moved.     There  must  be  the  dropping  of  the  water  upon 
the  rock.     De  IMranger  has  wrought  brilliant  things,  pungent  and 
spirit-stirring;  but,  like  all  immassive  bodies,  they  lack  momen- 
tum, and  thus  fail  to  satisfy  the  Poetic  Sentiment.     They  sparkle 


\ 


wr 


\i 


AAfKR/CI.V  PKOSH 


and  excite,  Imt,  from  want  of  continuity,  fail  deeply  to  iniprcHS. 
KxtrcniL'  brevity  will  degenerate  into  ciii^rainniatisin;  hut  the  sin 
of  extreme  lenj^^tli  iH  even  more  unpardonable.  //;  nifi/io  tutisih 
mils  ihia. 

Were  1  called  npon,  however,  to  designate  that  class  of  com- 
position wiiicli,  next  to  su<  h  a  poem  as  I  have  snu^ested,  should 
best  fuHil  the  demands  of  hijjii  genius  —  should  offer  it  the  most 
advantageous  field  of  exertion  —  I  should  unhesitatingly  speak  of 
the  prose  tale,  as  Mr.  Hawthorne  has  here  exemplified  it.  I 
allude  to  the  short  prose  narrative,  re(iuiring  from  a  half-hour  to 
one  or  two  hours  in  its  jierusal.  llie  ordinary  novel  is  objec- 
tionable, from  its  length,  for  reasons  already  stated  in  subslance. 
As  it  c;innol  be  read  at  one  sitting,  it  deprives  itself,  of  course, 
of  the  immense  force  derivable  from  tolality.  Worldly  interests 
intervening  during  the  pauses  of  perusal,  modify,  annul,  or  coun- 
teract, in  greater  or  less  degree,  the  impression  of  the  book.  Hut 
simple  cessation  in  reading  woidd,  of  itself,  be  sufficient  to  de- 
stroy the  true  unity.  In  the  brief  tale,  however,  the  author  is  en- 
abled to  carry  out  the  fulness  of  his  intenti(m,  be  it  what  it  may. 
During  the  hour  of  perusal  the  soul  of  the  reader  is  at  the  writer's 
control.  There  arc  no  external  or  extrinsic  influences  —  resulting 
from  weariness  or  interruption. 

A  skilful  literary  artist  has  constructed  a  tale.  If  wise,  he  has 
not  fashioned  his  thoughts  to  accommodate  his  incidents;  but 
having  conceived  with  deliberate  care,  a  certain  unitjue  or  single 
effect  to  be  wrought  out,  he  then  invents  such  incidents  —  he  then 
combines  such  events  as  may  best  aid  him  in  establishing  this 
preconceived  effect.  If  his  very  initial  sentence  tends  not  to  the 
outbringing  of  this  effect,  then  he  has  failed  in  his  first  step.  In 
the  whole  composition  there  should  be  no  word  written,  of  which 
the  tendency,  direct  or  indirect,  is  not  to  the  one  preestablishcd 
design.  And  by  such  means,  with  such  care  and  skill,  a  picture 
's  at  length  painted  which  leaves  in  the  mind  of  him  who  con- 
templates it  with  a  kindred  art,  a  sense  of  the  fullest  satisfaction. 
The  idea  of  the  tale  has  been  presented  unblemished,  because 
undisturbed;  and  this  is  an  end  unattainable  by  the  novel. 
Undue  brevity  is  just  as  exceptionable  here  as  in  the  poem; 
but  undue  length  is  yet  more  to  be  avoided. 


RlXiAR  Al.l.AS  I'OE 


301 


ily  to  impress, 
n;  l)iit  the  sin 
t  iiui/to  tiitissi- 

class  of  com- 
gcsted,  siiould 
(er  it  tlie  most 
linnly  speak  of 
)|)iirie(l  it.       I 

a  half-hour  to 
lovel  is  objec- 
1  in  suhsianre. 
self,  of  roiirse, 
;)rlilly  interests 
mniil,  or  eonn- 
Lhc  book.  Hut 
iifticient  to  de- 
le  author  is  en- 
it  what  it  may. 
i  at  the  writer's 
ces  —  resulting 

If  wise,  he  has 

incidents;  but 
ni(pie  or  single 
lents  —  he  then 
itablishing  this 
:ends  not  to  the 
i  first  step.  In 
rittcn,  of  which 
!  preestablishcd 

skill,  a  picture 
[  him  who  con- 
est  satisfaction, 
nished,  because 

by   the   novel. 

in  the  poem; 


We  have  said  that  the  tale  has  a  point  of  su|)eriority  even  over 
the  poem.  In  fai  t,  while  the  >h\lhm  of  tliis  latter  is  an  esstMUial 
aid  in  the  development  of  the  poem's  highest  idea  —  the  idea  of 
the  Keautiful  -the  artifu  ialities  of  this  rhythm  arc  an  insepa- 
rable l);'r  to  the  development  of  all  points  of  thought  or  expres- 
sion which  have  their  basis  in  I'rnth.  Itut  I'ruth  is  often,  and 
in  a  very  great  degree,  the  aim  of  the  tale.  Some  of  the  finest 
tales  are  tales  of  ratiocination.  'I'hus  the  field  of  this  sjjecies  of 
compositi<m,  if  not  in  so  elevated  a  region  on  the  mountain  of 
Mind,  is  a  tablelantl  of  far  vaster  extent  than  the  domain  of  the 
mere  poem.  Its  products  are  never  so  rich,  but  infinitely  more 
numerous,  and  more  ajipreciable  by  the  mass  of  mankind.  The 
writer  of  tiie  prose  tale,  in  short,  may  bring  to  his  theme  a  vast 
variety  of  modes  or  inflections  of  thought  and  expression  —  (the 
ratiocinative,  for  exam|)le,  the  sarcastic,  or  the  humorous)  which 
are  not  only  antagonistical  to  the  nature  of  the  poem,  but  abso- 
lutely forbidden  by  one  of  its  most  peculiar  and  indispensable 
adjuncts;  we  allude,  of  couise,  to  rhythm.  It  may  be  .added, 
here,  par  pareitthhc,  that  the  author  who  aims  at  the  i)urely 
beautiful  in  a  prose  tale  is  laboring  at  a  great  tlisadvantage. 
For  lleauty  can  be  better  treated  in  the  poem.  Not  so  with 
terror,  or  passion,  or  horror,  or  a  multitude  of  such  other  points. 
And  here  it  will  be  seen  how  full  of  prejudice  are  the  usual 
animadversions  against  those  tale^  of  effect,  many  fine  examples 
of  which  were  found  in  the  earlii.-r  numbers  of  Blac'^woml.  The 
impressions  |)roduced  were  wrought  in  a  legitimate  sphere  of 
action,  and  constituted  a  legitimn^e  although  sometimes  an 
exaggerated  interest.  They  were  relished  by  every  man  of 
genius:  although  there  were  found  many  men  of  genius  who 
condemned  them  without  just  ground.  The  true  critic  will  but 
demand  that  the  design  intended  be  accomplished,  to  the  fullest 
extent,  by  the  means  most  advantageously  applicable. 

We  have  very  few  American  tales  of  real  merit  —  we  may  say, 
indeed,  none,  with  the  exception  of  The  Tales  of  a  Traveller, 
of  Washington  Irving,  and  these  ^vice-Told  Tales  of  Mr.  Haw- 
thorne. Some  of  the  pieces  of  Mr.  John  Neal  abound  in  vigor 
and  originality;  but,  in  general,  his  compositions  of  this  class 
are  excessively  diffuse,  extravagant,  and  indicative  of  an  imper- 


302 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


iect  sentiment  of  Art.  Articles  at  random  are,  now  and  then, 
met  with  in  our  periodicals  which  might  be  advantageously  com- 
pared with  the  best  effusions  of  the  British  magazines;  but,  upon 
the  whole,  we  are  far  behind  our  progenitors  in  this  department 
of  literature. 

[From  Iliuuthornc's  Tales,  1842.     Reprintcil,  with  the  permission  of  Her- 
bert S.  Stone  and  Co.,  from  Works,  vol.  vii,  pp.  29-33.] 


low  and  then, 
ageously  com- 
es; but,  upon 
is  department 

nnissiun  of  Her- 


OLIVER   WENDELL   HOLMES 

[Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  was  born  in  Cambridge,  Mass.,  Aug.  29,  1809,  and 
died  in  Boston,  Oct.  7,  1894.  He  was  educated  at  Phillips  Andover  Academy, 
and  at  Harvaird,  where  he  belonged  to  the  class  of  1829.  There  he  came  under 
Unitarian  influence,  and  belonged  to  a  rather  gay  club  of  students.  .So  strong 
was  his  reaction  from  earlier  religious  influences  that  eve»i  in  the  J'i/-ri»i's 
Progress,  much  as  he  felt  its  literary  power,  he  was  violently  repelled  by  the 
religious  system  it  contains.  During  his  early  education,  as  later,  he  was  a  pip- 
ping reader,  tasting  many  books,  taking  few  entire.  He  showed  his  tendency 
toward  li>^,,*>->^^gc.;^..  Uy  |^j.  gimr-"*"^  jvjth  g  ^^^.^fS^m^f^^^ 
the  conscious  literary  form  of  his  early  letterV  Ik  liT!!ll  !!||J?PlSTIy1fR?tng- 
lish  classics.  Pope's  Homeland  the  Encyclopedia.  -Aftcr-^rirhrattonT^wcnt 
for  a  year  to  the  Dane  Law  School.  Disliking  the  study,  he  began'immedi- 
ately  to  study  medicine  in  Boston.  After  graduation  he  went  to  Europe,  in 
the  spring  of  1833,  studying  medicine  for  a  year  at  Paris,  travelling,  a  little, 
and  returning  in  the  autumn  of  1835.  The  next  year  he  began  practice  and  pub- 
lished later  some  medical  essays  which  stood  well  and  contained  discoveries 
of  some  importance.  In  1847  he  became  Parkman  Professor  of  Anatomy  and 
Physiology  in  the  medical  school  of  Harvard  University,  a  po«t  which  he  held 
for  thirty-five  years.  A  considerabie4ail4^l  hisTTme  wa's  aeVOted  tyJS^Ture 
tour5_abg»Mh«  rniipttt^,  His  connection  with  \)^c  Atlantic  Monthly  began 
in  1857,  through  the  influence  of  Janw*  KuSgell  iyrm^.TftlAimcrat  0/  the 
Breakfast  TabUAODea.re(\  in  that  peri(^3T?jrTFr:785p5l?,~-7»f  Pro/es'sorUt 
lKe~Break/ast  Table  in  1859,  The  Poet  at  the  Breakfast  Table  in  1872,  and 
Over  the  Teacups  in  1891.  Besides  this  series  he  published  thr.;e  novels, 
Elsie  Venner  (1861),  The  Guardian  Angel  (l86'/),  and  A  Mortal  Antipathy 
(1885),  '"fl  t*o  biographies,  a  Life  of  John  Lothrop  Motley  (1879)  and  a  Life  of 
Ralph  Waldo  Emerson  (1885).  Pages  from  an  Old  Volume  of  Life  contains 
essays  written  from  1857  to  1881.  His  time  went  more  and  more  to  literary 
pursuits  and  less  to  medicine  as  his  life  advanced.] 

OuvER  W-iNDELL  HoLMES  has  left  several  of  the  most  popular 
volumes  of  prose  in  American  literature.  The  Autocrat  of  the 
Breakfast  Tab!:,  The  Professor  at  the  Breakfast  Table,  and,  to  a 
less  extent,  The  Poet  at  th''  Breakfast  Table,  are  among  the  small 
number  of  essays  which  have  a  large  American  public.     Although 

303 


\ 


l(f 


304 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


they  are  essays,  the  freedom  of  their  form  — in  turn  narrative, 
dramatic,  and  expository —  matches  the  variety  of  tlieir  subjects, 
so  that  their  unity  is  in  the  personality  of  the  writer.  It  is  mainly 
wit  that  makes  these  books  Hve,  but  the  wit  is  composed  largely 
of  wisdom,  and  is  carried  along  in  an  easy,  flowing,  and  limber 
style,  at  once  familiar  and  finished,  —  a  style  which  expresses  not 
only  the  man,  but  the  time  and  place.  New  I-lngland  has  given  to 
literature  names  which  are  greater,  but  none  which  springs  more 
unmistakably  from  her  soil.  Distinct  thought  about  life,  expressed 
with  wit  and  elegance,  must  have  much  that  is  common  to  civiliza- 
tion, but  the  breakfast-table  series  is  as  deeply  saturated  with  New 
England  as  it  is  with  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes.  IJoston  was  the 
universe  to  Holmes.  Concentration  of  life  and  thought  in  one 
atrilosphere  gave  to  his  writings  their  flavor  rather  than  their  sub- 
stance, and  it  is  largely  their  flavor  which  h.s  recommended 
them  to  his  countrymen. 

Thoroughly  as  Holmes  belongs  to  New  England,  he  is  part  of 
no  group.  The  larger  tenilencies  of  his  time,  whicli  found  their 
expression  in  the  transcendental  movement,  left  the  Autocrat  un- 
touched. Democracy  never  whispered  its  vaguer  poetry  in  his 
ear.  His  part  of  New  England  life  was  not  its  aspiration,  but  its 
Yankee  shrewdness,  —  youthful,  independent,  wide-awake,  matter 
of  fact,  even  in  the  statement  of  truths  tinged  with  imagination. 
Vagueness,  color,  a  reaching  out  after  something  not  yet  seen,  is 
the  characteristic  of  the  bulk  of  New  England's  greatest  literature. 
Clearness,  precision,  confidence,  are  the  elements  of  Holmes's 
Yankee  mind.  In  the  Autocrat  this  concrete  and  witty  intellect  is 
at  its  gayest.  The  Professor  has  less  das^,  and  more  ripeness  and 
mild  breadth.  Naturally,  therefore,  the  earlier  book  is  still  the 
more  popular,  and  its  successor  the  favorite  of  the  most  cultiv-lu'd 
fraction  of  readers.  It  is  not  less  witty.  It  is  only  less  t ;  .;;  ui- 
inatic  and  more  leisurely.  As  these  books,  begun  when  tl'e  i>  .'^  .  s. 
powers  were  at  their  height,  took  from  his  mind  its  brightest  ;  ''s- 
tals,  the  world  has  put  the  two  later  instalments  of  the  series  on 
a  lower  shelf.  Of  the  novels,  the  first  two  were  popular  in  their 
time,  and  Elsie  Venner  is  still  much  read,  b)Jt  they  have  never 
been  treated  as  important  contributions.  Holmes's  mind  was  not 
constructive,  but  discursive.     He  could  create  characters  and  tell 


OLIVER    WENDELL  HOLMES 


30s 


irn  narrn.tive, 
heir  subjects, 
It  is  mainly 
posed  largely 
;,  and  limber 
expresses  not 
1  has  given  to 
springs  more 
life,  expressed 
on  to  civiliza- 
ited  with  New 
iston  was  the 
lought  in  one 
lian  their  sub- 
recommended 

he  is  part  of 
:h  found  their 
;  Autocrat  un- 
poetry  in  his 
ration,  but  its 
awake,  matter 
\  imagination. 
)t  yet  seen,  is 
test  literature, 
i  of  Holmes's 
itty  intellect  is 
e  ripeness  and 
ok  is  still  the 
lost  cult'v..!ed 

less  ti^'-,.  ni- 
;n  \y^  iKubi  i'b 
brightest  ;';'h- 

the  series  on 
)pular  in  their 
ey  have  never 

mind  was  not 
icters  and  tell 


stt)ries,  but  it  was  in  the  manner  of  conversation.  The  best  things 
in  his  fiction  are  digressions.  The  psychological  interest  domi- 
nates, and  most  of  the  formal  development  seems  an  effort  of  the 
will.  "A  Romance  of  Destiny,"  the  sub-title  of  Elsie  Venner, 
suggests  his  attitude  toward  his  "  medicated  novels,"  as  an  old 
lady  called  them.  Every  one  of  his  volumes  contains  brilliant 
passages,  from  the  medical  essays  to  Over  the  Teacups,  but  if  pos- 
terity shall  seek  the  author  in  the  Autocrat,  the  Professor,  and  the 
i'oet,  it  will  find  the  whole  of  him.  In  his  happiest  passages  he 
is  all  those  persons :  an  autocrat,  revelling  in  his  own  personality; 
a  professor,  with  information,  and  interest  in  the  larger  psychology  ; 
and  a  jioet,  who  loved  Pope  and  would  have  been  the  same  had 
Wordsworth  never  lived.  "  This  series  of  papers,"  he  tells  us, 
"  was  not  the  result  of  an  express  premeditation,  but  was,  as  I 
may  say,  dipped  from  the  running  stream  of  my  thoughts."  In 
it  he  has  left  such  an  intimate  picture  of  himself  as  daily  con- 
versation would  have  given. 

The  types  of  New  Kngland  character  which  are  sketched  dra- 
matically and  sharply  in  these  papers  did  as  much  to  give  them 
their  immediate  success  as  the  humorous  philosophy  of  the  princi- 
pal speaker.  They  range  from  the  broadly  comic  to  the  pathetic, 
although  htmior  and  pathos  are  never  far  apart.  The  landlady  and 
her  daughter,  the  schoolmistress.  Little  Boston,  and  as  many  others, 
have  become  familiar  persons,  but  perhaps  the  most  brilliantly 
executed,  next  to  the  autographical  character,  is  "  the  young  man 
whom  they  (;all  John."  In  him-American  humor,  independence, 
and  crudity  take  their  most  distinctive  and  most  entertaining  form. 
He  is  what  the  Autocrat  would  have  been  without  culture,  —  the 
observant  wit  in  its  primitive  state.  Next  to  him  come  the  series 
of  kxjuacious  and  unreasonable  women,  universal  personages,  talk- 
ing not  about  the  details  of  the  life  about  them,  so  much  as  about 
the  things  which  people  everywhere  discuss,  yet  proving  their  na- 
tionality in  the  turn  of  every  phrase.  The  characters  which  are 
less  comic,  especially  those  which  are  supposed  to  have  a  touch 
of  aristocratic  distinction,  are  not  so  firmly  drawn.  The  single 
passages  which  stand  out  for  individual  brilliancy  are  usually  those 
in  which  the  Autocrat  moralizes  in  his  own  person,  covering  im- 
portant subjects  with  his  special  genial  comment.    He  felt,  kindly 


3o6 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


and  sympathetically,  the  general  tragedies  of  life,  but  his  mode  of 
imtting  even  tragic  truths  was  a  playful  one.  For  instance,  noth- 
ing impressed  him  more  constantly  than  the  battle  between  the 
weak  and  the  strong,  and  this  is  one  way  of  stating  it :  "  Each 
generation  strangles  and  drowns  its  predecessor.  The  young  Fee- 
jeean  carries  a  cord  in  his  girdle  for  his  father's  neck ;  the  young 
American,  a  string  of  propositions  or  syllogisms  in  his  brain  to 
finish  the  same  relative  ;  the  old  man  says, '  My  son,  I  have  swal- 
lowed and  tligested  the  wisdom  of  the  past.'  The  young  man 
says,  '  Sire,  I  proceed  to  swallow  and  digest  thee  with  all  thou 
knowest.' " 

Not  unrelated  to  Holmes's  humorous  attitude  toward  every 
part  of  life,  and  to  his  dislike  of  the  vague  and  his  content  with 
what  truth  can  be  put  clearly  in  a  sentence,  was  his  entire  absence 
from  the  great  political  movements  which  reached  their  climax 
while  he  was  quietly  smiling  in  his  study.  His  readers  would 
hardly  know  that  there  had  been  an  abolition  movement  or  a  war, 
except  from  occasional  not  altogether  sympathetic  passages.  He 
was  sceptical  about  everything  new  except  science.  On  that  firm 
ground  alone  he  felt  at  home,  and  probably  at  least  nine  tenths  of 
his  metaphors  have  a  more  or  less  distinctly  scientific  origin.  The 
great,  indistinct,  ethical  enthusiasm  of  the  nation,  which  gradually 
carried  along  the  cautious  Emerson,  and  brought  such  a  noble 
response  from  Lowell,  was  not  to  the  taste  of  Holmes.  He 
was  the  nice  gendeman,  full  of  delicacy,  who  did  not  like  to  see 
the  proprieties  disturbed.  The  sword  and  the  truiiipet  were  un- 
pleasant objects.  He  suggested,  as  his  doctor's  sign,  "  the  small- 
est fever  gratefully  received,"  and  such  was  the  tone  in  which  he 
liked  best  to  handle  other  things  as  serious  as  fevers.  The  Ameri- 
can nature  has  its  enthusiastic,  idealistic  side,  but  even  more  ob- 
vious and  pervading  is  its  fatalistic,  good-humored  jocosity,  which 
could  hardly  be  represented  more  vividly  than  it  was  in  the  mind 
and  character  of  Dr.  Holmes.  The  Autocrat  has  given  pleasure 
to  thousands,  but  he  has  had  Uttle  more  influence  on  Hfe  or  letters 
than  the  shirt-sleeved  philosopher  in  'a  Yankee  post-office  who 
lazily  retails  quaint  witticisms  about  his  neighbors.  Holmes  is 
without  successors,  as  he  was  without  predecessors.  The  world 
amused  him,  he  amused  it,  and  each  left  the  other  in  statu  quo. 


1 


It  his  mode  of 
nstance,  noth- 
;  between  the 
ng  it :  "  Each 
he  young  Fee- 
:k ;  the  young 
1  his  brain  to 
1,  I  have  swal- 
le  young  man 
with  all  thou 

toward  every 
is  content  with 
entire  absence 
I  their  climax 
readers  would 
ment  or  a  war, 
passages.     He 

On  that  firm 
;  nine  tenths  of 
ic  origin.  The 
ihich  gradually 

such  a  noble 
Holmes.  He 
lot  like  to  see 
mjjet  were  un- 
jn,  "  the  small- 
le  in  which  he 
5.  The  Ameri- 
even  more  ob- 
jocosity,  which 
ras  in  the  mind 
given  pleasure 
»n  life  or  letters 
post-office  who 
rs.  Holmes  is 
rs.  The  world 
in  statu  quo. 


OLIVER    WF.:^nF.I.I.  HOLMES 


307 


Although  he  lacked  sympathy  with  change,  everything  simple 
and  unchanging,  however  ludicrous,  had  his  friendly  appreciation. 
When  he  speaks  of  his  "  recollection  of  the  two  women,  drifting 
upon  their  vocabularies  as  upon  a  shoreless  ocean,"  surely  the 
geniality  and  the  kindliness  are  as  visible  as  the  fun.  "  Better  too 
few  words  from  the  woman  we  love  than  too  many  ;  while  she  is 
silent  nature  is  working  for  her  ;  while  she  talks  she  is  working  for 
herself."  That  again  is  his  dominant  note,  a  smiling  hospitality 
for  the  fixed  truths,  not  the  less  genuine  that  it  was  always  adorned 
with  friendly  satire.  To  his  deta»  hed  obser\'ation  the  world  was 
fragmentary  and  capricious,  and  much  of  its  conversation,  which 
buzzed  loudly  about  his  ears,  signified  nothing.  He  notices  in 
entering  a  railway  station  that  the  cars  are  travelling  by  their  own 
momentum,  the  engine  having  noiselessly  left  them  some  time  ago. 
"  Indeed,  you  would  not  have  suspected  that  you  were  travelling 
on  the  strength  of  a  dead  fact  if  you  had  not  seen  the  engine  run- 
ning away  from  you  on  a  side  track."  So  it  is  with  women,  their 
words  are  detached  from  their  thoughts,  but  run  on  so  rapidly  that 
we  never  know  the  difference.  "Well,  they  govern  the  world, — 
these  sweet-lipped  women, — because  beauty  is  the  im'  \  of  a 
larger  fact  than  wisdom.  .  .  .  Wisdom  is  the  abstract  of  the  past, 
but  beauty  is  the  promise  of  the  future."  It  is  always  the  same, 
this  half-tender  sentiment  for  the  every-day  important  facts  of  life, 
mixed  with  an  irrepressible  amusement  at  the  absurdity  of  their 
expression. 

A  man  of  a  rambling,  genial  wisdom,  without  a  system,  whimsi- 
cal and  charming,  reflecting  in  his  style  the  quality  of  the  air  he 
breathed,  but  showing  no  more  definite  influence  than  that  of 
Sterne,  and  forming  none,  is  not  easy  to  jjlace  in  a  literary  hie- 
rarchy. Some  of  the  books  of  Holmes  are  likely  to  be  a  per- 
manent part  of  our  literature,  because  of  their  finish,  conciseness, 
humor,  and  national  atmosphere,  and  because  there  are  no  others 
like  them.  They  promise  to  outlive  many  which  have  had  a 
deeper  influence.  The  man  with  a  message  is  frequently  laid  in 
the  ground  when  his  message  is  accepted,  while  the  man  who  has 
put  into  artistic  form  the  old  universal  things  which  are  ever 
young,  and  speaks  in  a  tone  that  is  suggestive  and  cheering,  has 
always  the  same  reason  for  existence. 

Norman  Hapgoou 


HARRIET   BEECHER   STOWE 


r  Harriet  Elizabeth  Beecher  was  the  daughter  of  Lyman  Beechcr,  a  distin- 
guihed  old  school  Congregational   divine  of  New   England,  and  s.ster   of 
Kry  Ward  Beecher.    She  was  born  at  Litchfield.  Conn.,  on  June  14.    81 
Tnot  Isi 2).     At  the  ag.  of  thirteen  she  went  to  Hartford,  Conn.,  to  attend  the 
ichool  of  her  elder  si.ter  Catherine,  and  was  afterwards  a  teacher  there.     In 
^832  the  family  removed  to  Cincinnati.  Oh.o.  and  in  .835  she  was  marr.ed  to 
Professor  Calvin  E.  Stowe  of  the  ;  .i.e  Theological  Seminary  m  that  cty      Her 
Lt  Zw  was  The  May  Florver,  or  Sketch.,  of  the  Deuendants  of  the  P.lgnms 
riLgr    The  next  year  the  Stowes  went  to  Brunswick,  Me.,  and  Umle/om's 
c2  was  written  there  during  1850.  first  printed  as  a  serial  in  the  Wnshtugton 
Natioml  Era  (the  author  writing  it  under  pressure    to  keep  pace  with  .t 
appTarance).  and  published  in  book  form  in  .852.    The  success  of  the  novel 
Jls  instant  and  .mmense.     No  other  work  of  American  authorsh.p  has  ap- 
proximated to  such   a  circulation.      Copies   have  sold  ''V  '^e  humlreds  o 
Thousands,  and  there  are  translations  in  some  thirty  tongues      In  1852  Pro 
lessor  Stowe  was  called  to  the  Theological  Seminary  at  Andover.  Mass.     In 
864  the  family  removed  to  Hartford,  where  Mrs.  Stowe  resided  contmuou  Jr 
until  her   death  on  July  ,.   .896.     Her  F-c-pal  -rksare:    6m/.   r^- 
rnhiH  f  l8<;2^  •   Dred,  a  Tale  of  the  Great  Dismal  Swamp  (1856)  ;    The  Mm- 
fstsyoS;  (.fss9-.    The  Pearl  of  Orr's7stand(m2);   Agnes  of  Sorrento 
Xl^ty!mtL  Folks  (.869) ;   and  Sam  Lawson's  Fireside  Stones  (.87.).  ] 

By  writing  Unc/e  Tom's  Cabin  Mrs.  Stowe  took  her  place  at 
once  as  something  more  than  a  literary  figure.  She  became  a 
moral  force,  operative  to  great  results  ;  she  helped  to  make  Amer- 
ican  history.  The  uniquely  wide  acceptance  of  her  remarkable 
story  was  due,  in  large  measure,  to  the  timeliness  of  its  topic,  and 
the  perfervid  character  of  its  didacticism.  The  novel  was  not  a 
calculated  literary  performance,  much  less  a  tour, te  force  of  letters. 
Its  maker  was  a  New  England  woman,  a  member  of  one  of  the 
most  distinctive  and  typical  families  of  the  land.  She  was  dow- 
ered with  a  strong  religious  instinct,  was  bred  in  a  spiritual  atmos- 
phere, and  trained  in  a  way  to  make  conscience  hypersensitive. 

308 


WE 

Heechcr,  a  distin- 
1(1,  and  sister  of 
on  June  14,  181 1 
nn.,  to  attend  the 
eacher  there.  In 
le  was  married  to 
in  that  city.  Her 
lis  of  the  Pilgriim 

and  Uncle  Toni's 
in  the  Washinglon 
eep  pace  with  its 
ccess  of  the  novel 
uthorship  has  ap- 
iT  the  hundreds  of 
es.  In  1852  Pro- 
ndover,  Mass.  In 
sided  continuously 
are  :  Uncle  Tom's 
[^1856);    TheMin- 

Agnes  of  Sorrento 
de  Stories  {\%^\).\ 

ok  her  place  at 

She  became  a 

I  to  make  Amer- 

her  remarkable 

of  its  topic,  and 

novel  was  not  a 

e  force  of  letters. 

er  of  one  of  the 

She  was  dow- 

i  spiritual  atmos- 

e  hypersensitive. 


mmmm. 


HARRIET  BEECHER  STOWE 


309 


Such  a  woman  as  this  —  a  young  New  iMiglaml  wife  and  mother, 
in  touch  with  common  .American  life  —  felt  to  the  uttermost  keen- 
ness the  horrors  of  hum;in  slavery  ;  she  saw  them  in  relation  to 
the  political  evils  of  her  day  and  country,  written,  as  it  were,  in 
blood.  Then,  with  her  soul  white-hot  with  spiritual  passion,  she 
found  a  vent  for  her  feelings. 

The  tale  is  a  notable  example  of  improvisation,  and  the  motive 
is  frankly  non-literary.  Herein  lie  at  once  its  merits  and  defects. 
Technically,  this  piece  of  fiction  —  ind  it  is  quite  the  fashion  of 
critics  nowadays  to  say  it  —  is  an  uncertain,  even  at  times  a  slov- 
enly performance.  The  narrative  style  is  loose  and  careless,  and 
there  is  little  or  no  distinction  of  manner,  —  which  is  only  to  say 
again  that  we  have  here  the  work  of  the  improvisatrice.  Nor  has 
the  dialogue,  admirable  as  it  often  is,  the  verisimilitude  to  life 
which  is  now  demanded  in  modern  fiction  of  the  highest  class. 
But  to  stop  here  is  to  falsify  with  a  half  truth.  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin 
is  essentially  a  romance  of  power ;  genius  is  behind  it,  after  all. 
It  is  a  vital  presentment  of  dramatic  scenes  out  of  human  life ; 
it  has  reality,  picturesqueness,  vivid  characterization,  emotional 
force  —  main  denotements  of  romantic  writing.  Its  dramatic  nat- 
ure is  implied  plainly  by  the  persistence  of  the  story  as  a  stage 
play.  These  qualities  have  been  instrumental  in  securing  for  the 
narration  its  wonderful  vogue.  Had  Mrs.  Stowe's  masterpiece 
been  nothing  but  an  earnest  sermon  of  little  literary  worth,  it 
would  not  to-day  compel  explanatioii.  Such  creations,  faulty  as 
they  may  be,  quicken  our  sense  of  the  dynamics  of  literature. 
They  draw  our  eyes  away  from  the  objective  side,  the  side  of 
technique  and  law,  to  consider  the  inner  impulse,  the  unpredica- 
ble  gift.  That  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin  is  not  without  prejudice  as  a 
picture  of  life  may  be  granted  readily  ;  it  were  strange,  indeed,  if 
a  New  England  woman  of  Mrs.  Stowe's  antecedents  and  convic- 
tions had  presented  the  facts  of  slaveholding  in  the  South  with 
the  colorless  impartiality  of  a  historian  a  generation  after  the 
Civil  War.  Yet  the  author  certainly  took  pains  to  be  accurate. 
She  had  visited  the  Southern  plantations,  she  had  observed  at 
first  hand.  The  Key  to  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin,  published  shortly 
after  the  novel  appeared,  shows  how  careful  she  was  to  base  her 
representations  upon  the  actual.     Considering  her  position,  the 


^■■ii^-J^iJfcM?iv;(*"S^^>-^¥i^ 


w 


310 


AMERICAN  FKOSE 


stury  is  remarkable  for  this  striving  after  the  truth,  rather  than  for 
misstatements.  It  errs  perhaps  in  empliasis  of  the  abuses  01  sla- 
very, so  that  the  chiaroscuro  is  untrue.  Nevertheless,  the  bright 
side  is  not  ignored  :  St.  Clare  and  Miss  Ophelia  are  in  the  tale  as 
well  as  Haley  and  Legree.  Moreover,  the  whole  question  of  fair- 
ness of  statement  is  aside  from  that  of  the  merit  of  a  piece  of  fic- 
tion which  presents  effectively,  in  its  n^iin  outlines  of  passion, 
tragedy,  and  homely  humor,  a  typical  phase  of  American  life  now 
passed  away. 

In  comparison  with  this  genuine  contribution  to  the  fiction  of 
our  day,  everything  else  written  by  Mrs.  Stowe  is  dwarfed  into 
insignificance.  Siie  was  voluminous,  and  much  of  her  work  had 
but  an  ephemeral  value.  It  is  her  fate  to  be  a  one-book  author. 
Some  of  her  literary  creations,  however,  have  more  than  a  passing 
interest.  Dred,  a  Tale  of  the  Great  Dismal  Swamp  is  an  impres- 
sive story,  dealing  with  material  similar  to  that  handled  in  Uncle 
Tom^s  Cabin.  Nor  should  it  be  forgotten  that  Mrs.  Stowe  was  a 
pioneer  in  the  sketch  of  New  England  country  life,  a  field  since 
enriched  by  the  labors  of  Miss  Jewett,  Miss  Wilkins,  and  others. 
OltUown  Folks  and  The  Ministet^s  IVooing  present  truthfully  and 
with  charm  the  manners  and  characters  of  their  place  and  time. 
Such  a  figure  as  Sam  Lawson,  in  the  former  book,  is  a  permanent 
addition  to  our  portrait  gallery  of  fiction.  More  than  the  nasal 
tone,  the  idiosyncrasy  of  dress,  and  the  superficial  social  customs  of 
rural  communities  a  generation  ago  are  reproduced  in  such  studies  ; 
one  is  made  to  see  the  physiognomy  of  the  New  England  mind  and 
soul  under  earlier,  simpler  conditions.  As  social  documents  these 
sketches  have  an  abiding  value  to  the  student  of  American  life, 
while  they  are  by  no  means  without  attraction  for  the  present-day 
reader  of  fiction  as  such. 

The  recent  apologetic  tone  of  native  criticism,  with  respect  to 
Mrs.  Stowe's  work,  is  a  not  unnatural  reaction  from  the  excessive 
laudation  following  hard  upon  the  appearance  of  Uncle  Tom's 
Cabin.  The  later  critical  attitude  also  indicates  an  increased  sensi- 
tiveness to  technique  in  literary  art.  It  is  likely  that  in  the  end 
this  reactionary  zeal  will  moderate  so  far  as  to  allow  of  a  juster 
judgment.  That  novel  will  then  stand  forth  as  a  great  piece  of 
fiction,  unequal,  faulty,  yet  the  product  of  power,  and  Mrs.  Stove 


^iil    r 


ther  than  for 
ibuses  oi  sla- 
ss,  the  bright 
in  the  tnle  as 
estion  of  fair- 
i  piece  of  fic- 
s  of  passion, 
rican  life  now 

the  fiction  of 
dwarfed  into 
lier  work  had 
-book  author, 
ihan  a  passing 
I  is  an  impres- 
dled  in  Uncle 
3.  Stowe  was  a 
,  a  field  since 
IS,  and  others, 
truthfully  and 
ace  and  time, 
s  a  permanent 
than  the  nasal 
:ial  customs  of 
1  such  studies ; 
land  mind  and 
(cuments  these 
American  life, 
he  present-day 

vith  respect  to 
1  the  excessive 
f  Uncle  Tom's 
ncreased  sensi- 
nat  in  the  end 
low  of  a  juster 
great  piece  of 
ind  Mrs.  Stove 


IIANNIKT  REIXIIER  STOWE  311 

will  go  down  in  our  history  not  only  as  an  American  whose  literary 
work  is  so  involved  in  our  politic  al  development  that  it  is  difficult 
to  estimate  her  work  as  literature,  but  also  as  one  of  the  few  writers 
in  the  United  States  whose  imaginative  creation  has  held  attention 
beyond  the  author's  own  life  and  land. 

RiCHAKI)    HUK'TON 


3>2 


AMERICAN  mOSK 


\-  A  ■ 


KLI/.A'S   KSCAPK 

TiiK  bell  here  rang,  and  'lorn  was  siimnioneil  to  the  parlor. 
"Tom,"  said  his  master,  kindly,  "I  want  you  to  notice  that  1 
give  this  gentleman  bonds  to  forfeit  u  thousand  dollars  if  you  are 
not  on  the  spot  when  he  wants  you;  he's  going  today  to  look 
after  his  other  business,  and  you  can  have  the  day  to  yourself. 
CiO  anywhere  you  like,  boy." 
"Thank  you,  Mas'r,"  said  Tom. 

"And  mind  yerself,"  said  the  trader,  "and  don't  come  it  over 
your  master  with  any  o'  yer  nigger  trit^ks;  for  I'll  take  every  cent 
out  of  him,  if  you  an't  thar.  If  he'd  hear  to  me  he  wouldn't 
trust  any  on  ye  —  si ippery  as  eels !  " 

"  Mas'r,"  said  Tom,  —  and  he  stood  very  straight,  —  "  I  was  jist 
eight  years  old  when  old  Missis  put  you  into  jny  arms,  and  you 
wasn't  a  year  old.  'Thar,'  say  she,  'Tom,  that's  to  be  your 
young  Mas'r;  take  good  care  on  him,'  says  she.  And  now  I  jist 
ask  you,  Mas'r,  have  I  ever  broke  word  to  you,  or  gone  contrary 
to  you,  'specially  since  I  was  a  Christian?" 

Mr.  Shelby  was  fairly  overcome,  and  the  tears  rose  to  his  eyes. 
"  My  good  boy,"  said  he,  "  the  Lord  knows  you  say  but  the  truth ; 
and  if  1  was  able  to  help  it,  all  the  world  shouldn't  buy  you." 

"  And  sure  as  I  am  a  Christian  woman,"  said  Mrs.  Shelby,  "  you 
shall  be  redeemed  as  soon  as  I  can  any  way  bring  together  means. 
Sir,"  she  said  to  Haley,  "  take  good  account  of  whom  you  sell  him 
to,  and  let  me  know." 

"I,or,  yes,  for  that  matter,"  said  the  trader,  "I  may  bring  him 
up  in  a  year,  not  much  the  wuss  for  wear,  and  trade  him  bark."^^ 
"I'll  trade  with  you  then,  and  make  it  for  your  advantage," 
said  Mrs.  Shelby. 

"Of  course,"  said  the  trader,  "all's  equal  with  me;  li'ves  trade 
'em  up  as  down,  so  I  does  a  good  business.  All  I  want  is  a  livin', 
you  know,  ma'am;  that's  all  any  on  us  wants,  I  s'pose." 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Shelby  both  felt  annoyed  and  degraded  by  the 
familiar  impudence  of  the  trader,  and  yet  both  saw  the  absolute 
necessity  of  putting  a  constraint  on  their  feelings.  The  more 
hopelessly  sordid  and  insensible  he  appeared,  the  greater  became 


the  parlor, 
o  notice  that  I 
ilhirs  if  you  are 
today  to  look 
lay  to  yourself. 


I't  come  it  over 

take  every  rent 

lie  he  wouldn't 

t,  — "I  was  jist 
f  arms,  and  you 
It's  to  be  your 
And  now  I  jist 
)r  gone  contrary 

rose  to  his  eyes, 
ay  but  the  truth ; 
I't  buy  you." 
rs.  Shelby,  "  you 
together  means, 
om  you  sell  him 

• 

[  may  bring  him 
ide  him  bark." 
■our  advantage," 

me;  li'ves trade 
want  is  a  livin', 
5' pose." 

degraded  by  the 
saw  the  absolute 
ngs.  The  more 
I  greater  became 


llAHniET  nKEClll'.R   STOWF. 


313 


Mrs.  Shelby's  dread  of  his  succeeding  in  recapturing  Kliza  and 
her  child,  and  of  course  the  greater  her  motive  for  detaining  him 
by  every  female  artifice.  She  therefore  gra(  iotisly  smiled,  as- 
sented, chatted  familiarly,  anil  did  all  she  could  to  make  time 
pass  imperceptibly. 

At  two  o'clock  Sam  and  Andy  brought  the  horses  up  to  the 
posts,  apparently  greatly  refreshed  and  invigorated  by  the  scami)er 
of  the  morning. 

Sam  was  there  new  oiled  from  dinner,  with  an  abundance  of 
zealous  and  ready  officiousness.  As  Ilaley  approached,  he  was 
boasting,  in  flourishing  style,  to  Andy,  of  the  evident  and  emi- 
nent success  of  the  operation,  now  that  he  had  "  farly  come  to  it." 

"Your  master,  I  s'pose,  don't  keep  no  dogs,"  said  Haley, 
thoughtfully,  as  he  prepared  to  mount. 

"Heaps  on  'em,"  said  Sam,  triumphantly;  "thar's  nruno  — 
he's  a  roarer!  and,  besides  that,  'bout  every  nigger  of  us  keeps 
a  pup  of  some  natur  or  uther." 

"Poh!"  said  Haley,  — and  he  said  something  else,  too,  with 
regard  to  the  said  dogs,  at  which  Sam  muttered, 

"  I  don't  see  no  use  cussin'  on  'em,  no  way." 

"But  your  master  don't  keep  no  dogs  (I  pretty  much  know  he 
don't)  for  trackin'  out  niggers." 

Sam  knew  exactly  what  he  meant,  but  he  kept  on  a  look  of 
earnest  and  desperate  simplicity. 

"Our  dogs  all  smells  round  considable  sharp.  I  spect  they's 
the  kind,  though  they  han't  never  hau  no  practice.  They's  far 
dogs,  though,  at  most  anything,  if  you'd  get  'em  started.  Here, 
Bruno,"  he  called,  whistling  to  the  lumbering  Newfoundland,  who 
came  pitching  tumultuously  toward  them. 

"You  go  hang!  "  said  Haley,  getting  up.  "Come,  tumble  up 
now." 

Sam  tumbled  up  accordingly,  dexterously  contriving  to  tickle 
Andy  as  he  did  so,  which  occasioned  Andy  to  split  out  into  a 
laugh,  greatly  to  Haley's  indignation,  who  made  a  cut  at  him 
with  his  riding-whip. 

"I's  'stonished  at  yer,  Andy,"  said  Sam,  with  awful  gravity. 
"This  yer's  a  seris  bisness,  Andy.  Yer  mustn't  be  a  makin' 
game.     This  yer  an't  no  way  to  help  Mas'r." 


3«4 


AMKKICAN  rkOSK 


% 


>i  <  i 


il 


*i 


"I  shall  take  the  straijjht  roiul  to  the  river,"  said  Haley, 
tlecidedly,  after  they  had  toine  to  the  boundaries  of  the  estate. 
"  1  know  the  way  of  all  of  'em, —  they  makes  tracks  for  the  under- 
ground." 

".Sartin,"  said  Siun,  'Mat's  de  idee.  Mas'r  Haley  hits  de 
thing  right  in  de  middle.  Now,  der's  two  roads  to  de  river,  — 
de  dirt  road  and  der  i)ike,- which  Mas'r  mean  to  take?" 

Andy  looked  up  innocently  at  Sam,  surprisctl  at  hearing  this 
new  geographical  fact,  but  instantly  confirmed  what  he  said,  by 
a  vehement  reiteration. 

"Cause,"  said  Sam,  "I'd  rather  be  'dined  to  'magine  that 
I.izy'd  take  de  dirt  road,  bcin'  it's  the  least  travelled." 

Haley,  notwithstanding  that  he  was  a  very  old  biril,  and  natu- 
rally inclined  to  be  sus|)icious  of  chaff,  was  rather  brought  up  by 
this  view  of  the  case. 

"If  yer  warn't  both  on  yer  such  cussed  liars,  now!"  he  said, 
contemplatively,  as  he  pondered  a  moment. 

The  pensive,  reflective  tone  in  which  this  was  spoken  appeared 
to  amuse  Andy  prodigiously,  and  he  drew  a  little  behind,  and 
shook  so  as  apparently  to  run  a  great  risk  of  falling  off  his  horse, 
while  Sam's  face  was  immovably  comp'  into  the  most  doleful 
gravity. 

"Course,"  said  Sam,  "Mas'r  can  uv/  aa  he'd  ruther;  go  de 
straight  road,  if  Mas'r  thinks  best, —  it's  all  one  to  us.  Now, 
when  I  study  'pon  it,  I  think  the  straight  road  de  best,  deruieiUy." 

"She  would  naturally  go  a  lonesome  way,"  said  Haley,  think- 
ing aloud,  and  not  minding  Sam's  remark. 

"Dar  an't  no  sayin',"  said  Sam;  "gals  is  pecular;  they  never 
does  nothin'  ye  thinks  they  will;  mose  gen'Uy  the  contrar.  C.als 
is  nat'lly  made  contrary;  and  so,  if  you  thinks  they've  gone  one 
road,  it  is  sartin  you'd  better  go  t'other,  and  then  you'll  be 
sure  to  find  'em.  Now,  my  private  'pinion  is,  Lizy  took  der  dirt 
road;  so  I  think  we'd  better  take  de  straight  one." 

This  profound  generic  view  of  the  female  sex  did  not  seem  to 
dispose  Haley  particularly  to  the  straight  road;  and  he  announced 
decidedly  that  he  should  go  the  other,  and  asked  Sam  when  they 
should  come  to  it. 

"A  little  piece  ahead,"  said  Sam,  giving  a  wink  to  Andy  with 


m 


■••"^, 


said  Haley, 
of  the  estate, 
[or  tlie  iinilcr- 

laley  hits  de 

3  de  river,  — 

;ake?" 

t  hearing  this 

It  he  said,  by 

'magine  that 
ed." 

ird,  and  natu- 
brought  up  by 

ow ! "  he  said, 

Dken  appeared 
e  behind,  and 
t  off  his  horse, 
le  most  doleful 

ruther;  go  de 
to  us.     Now, 

est,  deriiieiUy" 
Haley,  think- 

lar;  they  never 
contrar.  dais 
ey've  gone  one 
then  you'll  be 
;y  took  der  dirt 

lid  not  seem  to 
i  he  announced 
Sam  when  they 

ik  to  Andy  with 


lIARRlRr  BF.F.CHER  STOWF. 


315 


the  eye  whl(  h  was  on  Andy's  side  of  the  head;  and  he  added, 
gravely,  "Imt  I'vo  studded  on  de  nuttir,  and  I'm  .luite  »lar  we 
ought  not  to  go  dat  ar  way.  I  nci)i)cr  i)ecn  over  it  no  way.  it's 
despit  lonesome,  and  we  might  lose  our  way,— whar  we'd  come 
to,  de  Lord  only  knows." 

"Nevertheless,"  said  Haley,  "  I  shall  go  that  way." 

"Now  I  think  on't,  I  think  1  hcarn  'em  tell  that  dat  ar  road 
was  all  fenced  up  and  down  by  der  creek,  and  thar,  an't  it, 
Andy?" 

Andy  wasn't  certain;  he'd  only  "hearn  tell  "  about  that  ro.id, 
but  never  been  over  it.     In  short,  he  was  strictly  non-committal. 

Haley,  accustomed  to  strike  the  balance  of  probabilities  between 
lies  of  greater  or  lesser  magnitude,  thought  that  it  lay  in  favor  of 
the  dirt  road  aforesaid.  The  mention  of  the  thing  he  thought  he 
perceived  was  involuntary  on  Sam's  i)art  at  first,  and  his  confused 
attempts  to  dissuade  him  he  set  down  to  a  desperate  lying  on 
second  thoughts,  as  being  unwilling  to  implicate  ICIiza. 

When,  therefore,  Sam  imlicated  the  road,  Haley  plunged  briskly 
into  it,  followed  by  Sam  and  Andy. 

Now,  the  road,  in  fact,  w  i  an  old  one,  that  had  formerly  been 
a  thoroughfare  to  the  river,  nut  abandoned  for  many  years  after 
the  laying  of  the  new  pike.  It  was  open  for  about  an  hour's 
ride,  and  after  that  it  was  cut  across  by  various  farms  and  fences. 
Sam  knew  this  fact  perfectly  well,—  indeed,  the  road  had  been 
so  long  closed  up,  that  Andy  had  never  heard  of  it.  He  therefore 
rode  along  with  an  air  of  dutiful  submission,  only  groaning  and 
vociferating  occasionally  that  'twas  "desp't  rough,  and  bad  for 
Jerry's  foot." 

"Now,  I  jest  give  yer  warning,"  said  Haley,  "I  know  yer;  yer 
won't  get  me  to  turn  off  this  yer  road,  with  all  yer  fussin'  —  so 
you  shet  up ! " 

"Mas'r  will  go  his  own  way!"  said  Sam,  with  rueful  submis- 
sion, at  the  same  time  winking  most  portentously  to  Andy,  whose 
delight  was  now  very  near  the  explosive  point. 

Sam  was  in  wonderful  spirits,  —  professed  to  keep  a  very  brisk 
look-out,—  at  one  time  exclaiming  that  he  saw  "a  gal's  bonnet " 
on  the  top  of  some  distant  eminence,  or  calling  to  Andy  "if  that 
thar  wasn't  'Lizy'  down  in  the  hollow;"  always  making  these 


m 


I 


316 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


exclamations  in  some  rough  or  craggy  part  of  the  road,  where  the 
suciden  quickening  of  speed  was  a  special  inconvenience  to  all 
l)arties  concerned,  and  thus  keeping  Haley  in  a  state  of  constant 
commotion. 

After  riding  about  an  hour  in  this  way,  the  whole  party  made 
a  precipitate  and  tumultuous  descent  into  a  barn-yard  belonging 
to  a  large  farming  establishment.  Not  a  soul  was  in  sight,  all  the 
hands  being  employed  in  the  fields;  but,  as  the  barn  stood  con- 
spicuously and  plainly  square  across  the  road,  it  was  evident  that 
their  journey  in  that  direction  had  reached  a  decided  finale. 

"Warii't  dot  ar  what  I  telled  Mas'r?"  said  Sam,  with  an  air  of 
injured  innocence.  "  How  does  strange  gentleman  spect  to  know 
more  about  a  country  dan  de  natives  born  and  raised?" 

"You  rascal!"  said  Haley,  "you  knew  all  about  this." 

"Didn't  I  tell  yer  I  knoiv'J,  and  yer  wouldn't  believe  me? 
I  telled  Mas'r  'twas  all  shet  up,  and  fenced  up,  and  I  didn't 
spect  we  could  get  through, —  Andy  heard  me." 

It  was  all  too  true  to  be  disputed,  and  the  unlucky  man  had  to 
pocket  his  wrath  with  the  best  grace  he  was  able,  and  all  three 
faced  to  the  right  about,  and  took  up  their  line  of  march  for  the 
highway. 

In  consequence  of  a'!  the  various  delays,  it  was  about  xnree 
quarters  of  an  hour  after  Eliza  had  laid  her  child  to  sleep  in  the 
village  tavern  that  the  party  came  riding  into  the  same  place. 
Eliza  was  standing  by  the  window,  looking  out  in  another  direc- 
tion, when  Sam's  quick  eye  caught  a  glimpse  of  her.  Haley  and 
Andy  were  two  yards  behind.  At  this  crisis,  Sam  contrived  to 
have  his  hat  blown  off,  and  uttered  a  loud  and  characteristic 
ejaculation,  which  startled  \\f-x  at  once;  she  drew  suddenly  back; 
the  whole  train  swept  by  the  window,  round  to  the  front  door. 

A  thousand  lives  seemed  to  be  concentrated  in  that  one  moment 
to  Eliza.  Her  room  opened  by  a  side  door  to  the  river.  She 
caught  her  child,  and  sprang  down  the  steps  towards  it.  The 
trader  caught  a  full  glimpse  of  her,  just  as  she  was  disappearing 
down  the  bank;  and  throwing  himself  from  his  horse,  and  calling 
loudly  on  Sam  and  Andy,  he  was  after  her  like  a  hound  after  a 
deer.  In  that  dizzy  moment  her  feet  to  her  scarce  seemed  to 
touch  the  ground,  and  a  moment  brought  her  to  the  water's  edge. 


)ad,  where  the 
jnience  to  all 
te  of  constant 

)le  party  made 
ard  belonging 
n  sight,  all  the 
am  stood  con- 
is  evident  that 
led  finale. 
,  with  an  air  of 
spect  to  know 
ed?" 
t  this." 

t  believe  me? 
,  and  I  didn't 

:ky  man  had  to 
,  and  all  three 
f  march  for  the 

iras  about  intee 
to  sleep  in  the 
he  same  place. 
1  another  direc- 
er.     Haley  and 
m  contrived  to 
1  characteristic 
suddenly  backj 
e  front  door, 
hat  one  moment 
the  river.     She 
)wards  it.     The 
^as  disappearing 
orse,  and  calling 
a  hound  after  a 
;arce  seemed  to 
he  water's  edge. 


HARRIET  BEECH ER   STOWE 


317 


Right  on  behind  they  came;  and,  nerved  with  strength  such  as 
God  gives  only  to  the  desperate,  with  one  wild  cry  and  flying 
leap,  she  vaulted  sheer  over  the  turbid  current  by  the  shore,  on 
to  the  raft  of  ice  beyond.  It  was  a  desperate  leap  —  impossible 
to  anything  but  madness  and  despair;  and  Haley,  Sam,  and  Andy 
instinctively  cried  out,  and  lifted  up  their  hands,  as  she  did  it. 

'i'he  huge  green  fragment  of  ice  on  which  she  alighted  pitched 
and  creaked  as  her  weight  came  on  it,  but  she  stayed  there  not  a 
moment.  With  wild  cries  and  desperate  energy  she  leaped  to 
another  and  still  another  cake ;  —  stumbling  —  leaping  —  slipping 
—  springing  upwards  ag^in!  Her  shoes  are  gone  —  her  stock- 
ings cut  from  her  feet  — while  blood  marked  every  step;  but  she 
saw  nothing,  felt  nothing,  till  dimly,  as  in  a  dream,  she  saw  the 
Ohio  side,  and  a  man  helping  her  up  the  bank. 

"  Yer  a  brave  gal,  now,  whoever  ye  ar!  "  said  the  man,  with  an 
oath. 

Eliza  recognized  the  voice  and  face  of  a  man  who  owned  a 
farm  not  far  from  her  old  home. 

"  O,  Mr.  Symmes !  —  save  me  —  do  save  me  —  do  hide  me !  " 
said  Eliza. 

"Why,  what  3  this?"  said  the  man.  "Why,  if  'tan't  Shelby's 
gal !  " 

"  My  child !  —  this  boy !  —  he'd  sold  him !  There  is  his  Mas'r," 
she  said,  pointing  to  the  Kentucky  shore.  "O,  Mr.  Symmes, 
you've  got  a  little  boy!" 

"So  I  have,"  said  the  man,  as  he  roughly,  but  kindly,  drew  her 
up  the  steep  bank.  "Besides,  you're  a  right  brave  gal.  I  like 
grit,  wherever  I  see  it." 

When  they  had  gained  the  top  of  the  bank,  the  man  paused. 
"  I'd  be  glad  to  do  something  for  ye,"  said  he;  "but  then  there's 
nowhar  I  could  take  ye.  '  The  best  I  can  do  is  to  tell  ye  to  go 
thar,"  said  he,  pointing  to  a  large  white  house  which  stood  by 
itself,  off  the  main  street  of  the  village.  "Go  thar;  they're  kii;d 
folks.  Thar's  no  kind  o'  danger  but  they'll  help  you,  — they'rt 
up  to  all  that  sort  o'  thin  :." 

"The  Lord  bless  you!"  said  Eliza,  earnestly. 

"No  'casion,  no  'casion  in  the  world,"  said  the  man.  "What 
I've  done's  of  no  'count." 


3l8  AMERICA.^  I'KOSE 

"And,  oh,  surely,  sir,  you  won't  tell  any  one!" 

"Go  to  thunder,  gal!      What  do  you  take  a  feller  for?      In 

course  not,"  said  the  man.     "(^ome,  now,  go  along  like  a  likely, 

sensible  gal,  as  you  are.     You've  arnt  your  liberty,  and  you  shall 

have  it,  (or  all  mc." 

The   woman    folded   her   child    to    her   bosom,    and   walked 

firmly   and   swiftly   away.      The   man   stood   and    looked   after 

her. 

"Shelby,  now,  mebbe  won't  think  this  yer  the  most  neighborly 
thing  in  the  world;  but  what's  a  feller  to  do?  If  he  catches  one 
of  my  gals  in  the  same  fix,  he's  welcome  to  pay  back.  Somehow 
I  never  could  see  no  kind  o'  crittur  a  strivin*  and  pantin',  and 
trying  to  clar  theirselves,  with  the  dogs  arter  'em,  and  go  agin 
'em.  Besides,  I  don't  see  no  kind  of  'casion  forme  to  be  hunter 
and  catcher  for  other  folks,  neither." 

So  spoke  this  poor,  heathenish  Kcntuckian,  who  had  not  been 
instructed  in  his  constitutional  relations,  and  consequently  was 
betrayed  into  acting  in  a  sort  of  Christianized  manner,  which,  if 
he  had  been  better  situated  and  more  enli&htened,  he  would  not 
have  been  left  to  do. 

Haley  had  stood  a  perfectly  amazed  spectator  of  the  scene,  till 
Eliza  had  disappeared  up  the  bank,  when  he  turned  a  blank,  in- 
quiring look  on  Sam  and  Andy. 

"That  ar  was  a  tolable  fair  stroke  of  business,"  said  Sam. 
"The  gal's  got  seven  devils  in  her,  I  believe!"  said  Haley. 
"  How  like  a  wildcat  she  jumped !  " 

"Wal,  now,"  said  Sam,  scratching  his  head,  "I  hope  Mas'r'U 
scuse  us  try  in'  dat  ar  road.  Don't  think  I  feel  spry  enough  for 
dat  ar,  no  way !  "  and  Sam  gave  a  hoarse  chuckle. 
"  You  laugh ! "  said  the  trader,  with  a  growl. 
"Lord  bless  you,  Mas'r,  I  couldn't  help  it,  now,"  said  Sam, 
giving  way  to  the  long  pent-up  delight  of  his  soul.  "  She  looked 
so  curi's,  a  leapin'  and  springin'  —  ice  a  crackin'  —  and  only  to 
hear  her,— plump!  kerchunk!  ker  splash!  Spring!  Lord!  how 
she  goes  it!"  and  Sam  and  Andy  laughed  till  the  t^ars  rolled 
down  their  cheeks. 

"  I'll  make  yer  laugh  t'other  side  yer  mouths ! "  said  the  trader, 
laying  about  their  heads  with  his  riding-whip. 


ipip" 


ler  for?  In 
like  a.  likely, 
ind  you  shall 

and  walked 
looked   after 

St  neighborly 
e  catches  one 
k.  Somehow 
pantin',  and 
and  go  agin 
:  to  be  hunter 

had  not  been 
sequently  was 
ner,  which,  if 
he  would  not 

the  scene,  till 
d  a  blank,  in- 

lid  Sam. 

'  said  Haley. 

hope  Mas'r'U 
iry  enough  for 


V,"  said  Sam, 
"  She  looked 
—  and  only  to 
!  Lord!  how 
e  t^ars  rolled 

aid  the  trader. 


HAKKIET  BEECH EK  STUWE 


319 


Both  ducked,  and  ran  shouting  up  the  bank,  and  were  on  their 
horses  before  he  was  up. 

"Good  evening,  Mas'ri"  said  Sam,  with  much  gravity,  "/ 
berry  much  spect  Missis  be  anxious  'bout  Jerry.  Mas'r  Haley 
won't  want  us  no  longer.  Missis  wouldn't  hear  of  our  ridin' 
the  critters  over  Lizy's  bridge  to-night;"  and  with  a  facetious 
poke  into  Andy's  ribs,  he  started  off,  followed  by  the  latter,  at 
full  speed, —  their  shouts  of  laughter  coming  faintly  on  the  wind. 

[From  Uncle  Tom's  CaHn ;  or.  Life  among  the  Loxvly,  1 85 2,  chapter  7. 
The  text  is  that  of  the  hrst  edition.] 


TOPSY 

Miss  Ophelia's  ideas  of  education,  like  all  her  other  ideas, 
were  very  set  and  definite;  and  of  the  kind  that  prevailed  in  New 
England  a  century  ago,  and  which  are  still  preserved  in  some  very 
retired  and  unsophisticated  parts,  where  there  are  no  railroads. 
As  nearly  as  could  be  expressed,  they  could  be  comprised  in  very 
few  words:  to  teach  them  to  mind  when  they  were  spoken  to;  to 
teach  them  the  catechism,  sewing,  and  reading;  and  to  whip  them 
if  they  told  lies.  And  though,  of  course,  in  the  flood  of  light 
that  is  now  poured  on  education,  these  are  left  far  away  in  the 
rear,  yet  it  is  an  undisputed  fact  that  our  grandmothers  raised 
some  tolerably  fair  men  and  women  under  this  regime,  as  many 
of  us  can  remember  and  tesrify.  At  all  events,  Miss  Ophelia 
knew  of  nothing  else  to  do;  and,  therefore,  applied  her  mind  to 
her  heathen  with  the  best  diligence  she  could  command. 

The  child  was  announced  and  considered  in  the  family  as  Miss 
Ophelia's  girl;  and,  as  she  was  looked  upon  with  no  gracious  eye 
in  the  kitchen.  Miss  Ophelia  resolved  to  confine  her  sphere  of 
operation  and  instruction  chiefly  to  her  own  chamber.  With 
a  self-sacrifice  which  some  of  our  readers  will  appreciate,  she 
resolved,  instead  of  comfortably  making  her  own  bed,  sweeping 
and  dusting  her  own  chamber, —  which  she  had  hitherto  done, 
in  utter  scorn  of  all  offers  of  help  from  the  chambermaid  of  the 
establishment, —  to  condemn  herself  to  the  martyrdom  of  instruct- 
ing Topsy  to  perform  these  operations, —  ah,  woe  the  day!     Did 


m^nff^ 


r- 


320 


AMERICAN  J'h'OSE 


'!• 


any  of  our  readers  ever  do  the  same,  they  will  appreciate  the 
amount  of  her  self-sacrifice. 

Miss  Ophelia  began  with  Topsy  by  taking  her  into  her  chamber, 
tlie  first  morning,  and  solemnly  commencing  a  course  of  instruc- 
tion in  the  art  and  mystery  of  bed-making. 

Behold,  then,  Topsy,  washed  and  shorn  of  all  tho  little  braided 
tails  wherein  her  heart  had  delighted,  arrayed  v  clean  gown, 
with  well-starched  apron,  standing  reverently  before  Miss  Ophelia, 
with  an  expression  of  solemnity  well  befitting  a  funeral. 

"Now,  Topsy,  I'm  going  to  show  you  just  how  my  bed  is  to 
be  made.  I  am  very  particular  about  my  bed.  You  must  learn 
exactly  how  to  do  it." 

'Yes,  ma'am,"  says  Topsy,  with  a  deep  sigh,  and  a  face  of 
wofid  earnestness. 

"Now,  Topsy,  look  here;  — this  is  the  hem  of  the  sheet, —  this 
is  the  right  side  of  the  sheet,  and  this  is  the  wrong;  — will  you 
remember?" 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  says  Topsy,  with  another  sigh. 

."Well,  now,  the  under  sheet  you  must  bring  over  the  bolster, 

—  so, —  and  tuck  it  clear  down  under  the  mattress  nice  and 
smooth,  —  so,  —  do  you  see  ?  " 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  said  Topsy.  with  profound  attention. 
"But  the  upper  sheet,"  said  Miss  Ophelia,  "must  be  brought 
down  in  this  way,  and  tucked  under  firm  and  smooth  at  the  foot, 

—  so,  — the  narrow  hem  at  the  foot." 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  said  Topsy,  as  before;  but  we  will  add,  what 
Miss  Ophelia  did  not  see,  that,  during  the  time  when  the  good 
lady's  back  was  turned,  in  the  zeal  of  her  manipulations,  the 
young  disciple  had  contrived  to  snatch  a  pair  of  gloves  and  a 
ribbon,  which  she  had  adroitly  slipped  into  her  sleeves,  and 
stood  with  her  hands  dutifully  folded,  as  before. 

"Now,  Topsy,  let's  see  you  do  this,"  said  Miss  Ophelia,  pull- 
ing off  the  clothes,  and  seating  herself. 

Topsy,  with  great  gravity  and  adroitness,  went  through  the  exer- 
cise completely  to  Miss  Ophelia's' satisfaction;  smoothir;;  the 
sheets,  patting  out  every  wrinkle,  and  exhibiting,  through  the  whole 
process,  a  gravity  and  seriousness  with  which  her  instructress  was 
greatly  edified.     By  an  unlucky  slip,  however,  a  fluttering  frag- 


1:11 


mmmmmimmm 


ippreciate  the 

)  her  chamber, 
rse  of  instruc- 

'.  little  braided 
clean  gown, 
Miss  Ophelia, 
leral. 

'  my  bed  is  to 
'ou  must  learn 

and  a  face  of 

le  sheet, —  this 
ng;  —  will  you 


/er  the  bolster, 
tress  nice  and 

Uion. 

Hist  be  brought 

ath  at  the  foot, 

will  add,  what 
when  the  good 
lipulations,  the 
»f  gloves  and  a 
;r  sleeves,  and 

i  Ophelia,  puU- 

irough  the  exer- 

smoothir^-  the 

rough  the  whole 

instructress  was 

fluttering  frag- 


IIARRIET  BEECIIER  STOIVE 


321 


ment  of  the  ribbon  hung  out  of  one  of  her  sleeves,  just  as  she  was 
finishing,  and  caught  Miss  Ophelia's  attention.  Instantly  she 
pounced  upon  it.     "What's  this?     You  naughty,  wicked  child, 

—  you've  been  stealing  this!" 

The  ribbon  was  pulled  out  of  Topsy's  own  sleeve,  yet  was  she 
not  in  the  least  disconcerted;  she  only  looked  at.  it  with  an  air  of 
the  most  surprised  and  unconscious  innocence. 

"I^aws!  why,  that  ar's  Miss  Feely's  ribbon,  an't  it?  How 
could  it  a  got  caught  in  my  sleeve  ?  " 

"Topsy,  you  naughty  girl,  df^nt  you  tell  me  a  lie,  —  you  stole 
that  ribbon ! " 

"Missis,  I  deciar  for't,  I  didn't; —  never  seed  it  till  dis  yer 
blessed  m  inn  it."' 

"Topsy,  '  said  .Miss  Ophelia,  "don't  you  know  it's  wicked  to 
tell  lies?" 

"I  never  tells  no  lies.  Miss  Feely,"  said  Topsy,  with  virtuous 
gravity;  "it's  jist  the  truth  I've  been  a  tellin'  now,  and  an't 
nothin'  else." 

"Topsy,  I  shall  ^^-"c  tc  Al-ip  you,  if  you  tell  lies  so." 

"Laws,  Missis,  1.  >ou's  to  whip  all  day,  couldn't  say  no  other 
way,"  said  Topsy,  beginning  to  blubber.      "  I  never  seed  dat  ar, 

—  it  must  a  got  caught  in  my  sleeve.  Miss  Feely  must  have  left 
it  on  the  bed,  and  it  got  caught  in  the  clothes,  and  so  got  in  my 
sleeve." 

Miss  Ophelia  was  so  indignant  at  the  barefaced  lie,  that  she 
caught  the  child,  and  shook  her. 

"Don't  you  tell  me  that  again! " 

The  shake  brought  the  gloves  on  the  floor,  from  the  other  sleeve. 

"There,  you! "  said  Miss  Ophelia,  "will  you  tell  me  now,  ycu 
didn't  steal  the  ribbon?" 

Topsy  now  confessed  to  the  gloves,  but  still  persisted  in  deny- 
ing the  ribbon. 

"Now,  Topsy,"  said  Miss  Ophelia,  "if  you'll  confess  all  about 
it,  I  won't  whip  you  this  time." 

Thus  adjured,  Topsy  confessed  to  the  ribbon  and  gloves,  with 
woful  protestations  of  penitence. 

"  Well,  now,  tell  me.  I  know  you  must  have  taken  other  things 
since  you  have  been  in  the  house,  for  I  let  you  run  about  all  day 

V 


1,9-!*;;  S-i»;:  i^iiSMlSSS&Si 


,,««i«i««*M»» 


A^mAS'^ 


:ii 


i  .1 


322 


AMERICAN  P/iC'SE 


yesterday.     Now,  tell  me  if  you  took  anything,  and  I  shan't  whip 
you." 

"Laws,  Missis!  I  took  Miss  Eva's  red  thing  she  wars  on  her 
neck." 

"You  did,  you  naughty  child!  — Well,  what  else?" 
"  I  took  Rosa's  yer-rings,  —  them  red  ones." 
"(io  bring  them  to  me  this  minute,  both  of  'em." 
"Laws,  Missis!  I  can't,  —they's  burnt  up!" 
"  Kurnt  up !  —  what  a  story !     (io  get  'em,  or  I'll  whip  you." 
Topsy,  with  loud  protestations,  and  tears,  and  groans,  declared 
that  she  a>u/t/  not.     " They's  burnt  up,  —  they  was." 
"What  did  you  burn  'em  up  for?"  said  Miss  Ophelia. 
"Cause  I'swicked,  —  I  is.     I's  mighty  wicked,  any  how.     I 
can't  help  it." 

Just  at  this  moment,  Eva  came  innocently  into  the  room,  with 
the  identical  coral  necklace  on  her  neck. 

"Why,  Eva,  where  did  you  get  your  necklace?"  said  Miss 
Ophelia. 

"(iet  it?     Why,  I've  had  ii  on  all  day,"  said  Eva. 
"Did  you  have  it  on  yesterday?  " 

"Yes;  and  what  is  funny.  Aunty,  I  had  it  on  all  night.  I  for- 
got to  take  it  off  when  I  went  to  bed." 

Miss  Ophelia  looked  perfectly  bewildered;  the  more  so,  as 
Rosa,  at  that  instant,  came  into  the  room,  with  a  basket  of  newly 
ironed  linen  poised  on  her  head,  and  the  coral  ear-drops  shaking 
in  her  ears ! 

"  I'm  sure  I  can't  toll  anything  what  to  do  with  such  a  child !  " 
she  said,  in  despair.  "  What  in  the  world  did  you  tell  me  you 
took  those  things  for,  Topsy?" 

"Why,  Missis  said  1  must  'fess;  and  I  couldn't  think  of 
nothin'  else  to  'fess,"  said  Topsy,  rubbing  her  eyes. 

"  But,  of  course,  I  didn't  want  you  to  confess  things  you  didn't 
do,"  said  Miss  Ophelia;  "that's  telling  a  lie,  just  as  much  as  the 
other." 

"Laws,  now,  is  it?"  said  Topsy,  with  an  air  of  innocent 
wonder. 

[From  Unc/e  Tom's  Cabin;  or.  Life  among  the  Lowly,  1852,  chapter  20. 
The  text  is  that  of  the  first  edition.]  "  ■;; 


I  shan't  whip 
e  wars  on  her 
?" 


whip  you." 
oans,  declared 

>helia. 

,  any  how.     I 

;he  room,  with 

?"    said  Miss 

^a. 

night.     Ifor- 

e  more  so,  as 
)asket  of  newly 
-drops  shaking 

such  a  child !  " 
ou  tell  me  you 

Idn't  think  of 

!S. 

ings  you  didn't 
as  much  as  the 

,ir  of  innocent 
1852,  chapter  20. 


JOHN    LOTHROP   MOTLEY 

[John  Lothrop  Motley  was  born  at  Dorchester,  now  a  part  of  Uoston,  April 
15,  1814,  and  died  near  Dorchester,  in  England,  May  29,  1877.  His  life  was 
passed  in  dealing  with  the  affairs  of  nations,  either  of  the  past,  as  historian,  or 
of  the  present,  as  diplomatist;  he  therefore  lived  much  of  his  life  aliroad.  1  le 
was  lirst  a  student  of  law  at  G6ttingen  and  ISerlin,  and  later  minister  to  Austria 
and  then  to  England.  Me  was  also,  however,  led  to  Europe  by  the  necessities 
of  his  studies  on  the  history  of  Holland  and  of  Europe  in  the  sixteenth  cen- 
tury. He  published  :  The  Rise  of  the  Dutch  Republic,  in  1856,  History  of  the 
United  NetherlanJs,  in  1861-8,  and  The  Life  and  Death  of  John  oj  Barne- 
t/^/(/(i874).  Uefore  settling  down  to  the  historical  work  which  has  made  him 
famous,  he  wrote  two  novels,  Morton's  Hope  (1839)  and  Merry  Mount  (iS^g). 
He  was  a  man  of  charming  personality,  as  may  be  gathered  from  his  Correspond- 
ence (1889),  or  from  the  Memoir  (1879),  by  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes.] 

It  is  not  unnatural  at  first  to  compare  Motley  with  Pr*"-.  M. 
.  Indeed,  the  comparison  forced  itself  upon  the  mind  of  the  younger 
man  at  the  very  beginning  of  his  career  as  a  historian,  when,  being 
already  heart  and  soul  committed  to  the  Revolt  of  the  Netherlands, 
he  learned  that  Prescott  had  already  collected  materials  for  a 
history  of  Philip  the  Second.  The  elder  scholar  behaved  in  the 
most  liberal  and  sympathetic  manner,  encouraged  the  younger 
student  most  earnestly  to  go  on,  and  assured  him  that  "  no  two 
books  ever  injured  each  other."  He  was  not  wrong,  in  this  case 
at  least.  A  comparison  of  these  two  great  historians  serves  chiefly 
to  emphasize  the  strong  points  of  each. 

Both  are  distinguished  by  immense  thoroughness  in  dealing  with 
their  materials,  both  by  the  challenging  care  of  their  style.  With 
their  characteristics  as  historians  we  are  here  not  closely  concerned, 
but  we  certainly  cannot  neglect  the  matter.  As  a  historian  there 
can  be  no  doubt  of  Motley's  hard  work,  breadth  of  knowledge, 
sound  accuracy,  sincerity.  The  same  thing  can  be  said  of  Pres- 
cott, who  has  a  most  engaging  and  disinterested  impartiality, 
besides.     But  Motley  could  not  have  been  disinterestedly  impar- 

323 


*i'^i#S 


BMiiataifa^  I'miiwi  ihi  ■■ 


AMERICAN  PKOSE 


tial.  He  was  writing,  not  of  Spaniards  and  Moors,  Incis  and 
Aztecs,  but  of  the  rise  of  a  republic,  of  a  father  of  his  country,  of 
the  growth  of  religious  toleration.  He  was  just,  but  he  tauld  not 
be  disinterested.  Indeed,  by  his  very  nature  Motley  was  not  a 
disinterested  observer.  No  novelist  can  afford  to  be  disinterested  : 
it  is  too  catching.  Motley  did  not  become  famous  as  a  novelist, 
certainly,  but  he  had  many  of  the  gifts  of  a  novelist.  He  was  a 
man  of  temperament  for  one  thing,  and  a  man  of  belief  for 
another.  Sympathy  for  his  subject  led  him  to  the  eighty  years' 
war,  and  his  ])osition  was  necessarily  taken  beforehand.  It  is  then 
with  allowance  for  the  personal  equation  that  Motley  is  impartial. 

It  is  this  very  personal  e(|uation,  however,  which  gives  him  his 
great  charm  as  a  man  of  letters,  and  which  enables  him  to  tell  a 
story  and  to  describe  a  thing  so  remarkably.  It  is  true  that  this 
is  not  all.  Patient  industry  and  hard  work  counted  for  more  than 
we  of  the  laity  can  well  understand.  Prescott  wrote  to  him  of  the 
vivid  details  of  the  sack  of  Saint  Quentin,  which  Motley  had  found 
in  a  dry  Documentos  Ineditos,  into  which  Prescott  had  never 
thought  to  look.  And  any  one  who  reads  the  account  of  the  fire- 
ships  at  the  Prince  of  Parma's  bridge,  comes  near  being  chilled  at 
the  list  of  authorities  at  the  end,  which  Motley  fortunately  did  not 
think  necessary  "  to  cite  step  by  step." 

But  all  this  mass  of  material  is  fused  by  his  spirit  into  a  living 
reality,  and  that  is  the  first  thing  that  makes  Motley  noteworthy 
for  everybody.  If  it  be  one  of  the  tests  of  an  author's  power  that 
he  can  make  real  in  his  reader's  mind  the  thoughts  and  feelings 
which  are  real  to  him,  Motley  stands  the  test  well.  It  is  true  that 
he  has  an  advantage,  as  did  Prescott,  in  his  subject-matter,  but 
certainly  a  great  part  of  that  advantage  was  discovered  by  himself. 
ICverybody  knew  that  Don  John,  of  Austria,  and  Sir  Philip  Sidney 
were  romantic  figures,  but  how  about  the  men  of  Haarlem,  who 
sallied  forth  on  skates  and  chased  the  Spaniards  about  on  the  ice, 
or  the  sea  beggars  who  raised  the  siege  of  I.eyden  by  .sailing  their 
fleet  up  to  the  city  walls?  These  things  had  been,  but  had  not 
taken  the  mind.  Motley  had  the  sympathy  to  see  life  in  the 
facts :  this  was  the  first  thing  needful  to  enable  us  to  see  the  facts 
as  life.  He  was  not  a  close  student :  he  was  a  man  of  the  world. 
Indeed,  his  non-scholastic  character  comes  near  interference  with 


ors,  Incis  and 
his  country,  of 
It  he  could  not 
tley  was  not  a 
;  disinterested  : 
3  as  a  novelist, 
ist.     He  was  a 
n  of  belief  for 
le  eighty  years' 
md.     It  is  then 
y  is  impartial. 
1  gives  him  his 
ss  him  to  tell  a 
i  true  that  this 
1  for  more  than 
te  to  him  of  the 
otley  had  found 
;ott   had   never 
mat  of  the  fire- 
being  chilled  at 
tunately  did  not 

irit  into  a  living 
)tley  noteworthy 
lor's  power  that 
;hts  and  feelings 
It  is  true  that 
iject-matter,  but 
ered  by  himself. 
;ir  Philip  Sidney 
if  Haarlem,  who 
ibout  on  the  ice, 
1  by  sailing  their 
en,  but  had  not 
see  life  in  the 
s  to  see  the  (iicts 
lan  of  the  world, 
interference  with 


/0///V  l.OTIIROP  MOTLEY 


m 


his  peculiar  power.  One  of  ll,e  i  harming  characteristics  of  the 
man  was  gentle  humor,  delicate  satire,  sedate  ei)igram,  courteous 
irony.  Everybody  will  remr;mber  how  tliis  ligiUs  up  the  Dutch 
Republic ;  in  his  later  work  m  e  are  sometimes  distracted  a  little  by 
It  from  a  matter  we  wish  to  engross  us. 

But  Motley  not  only  saw  life  in  the  fiicts,  he  had  a  very  sane 
feeling  for  dramatic  and  narrative  propriety  ;  in  fact,  he  sometimes 
had  even  an  ultra-scenic  feeling.  Rarely  carried  too  far,  this  feeling 
helped  him  to  a  remarkable  epic  unity  in  his  whole  work,  a  unity 
of  which  the  remarkable  thing  was  that  it  seems  so  natural.  Pro- 
portion and  relation  in  time  and  space,  these  matters  are  as  much 
a  part  of  his  literary  manner  as  picturcscjueness  and  life.  And 
althougii  the  former  are  most  noticeable  in  his  way  of  looking  at 
things,  the  latter  are  the  most  noteworthy  in  his  way  of  dealing 
with  them. 

Motley  continued  the  honorable  succession  of  American  histo- 
rians and  surpassed  all  who  had  preceded  him  because  he  gained 
from  their  work.  He  avoided  their  mistakes  and  either  imitated 
or  naturally  had  their  qualities.  Irving  had  been  romantic  and 
?pi;rks  had  been  laborious.  Bancroft  was  an  analyst,  but  he  gave 
hii  work  the  unity  of  a  great  idea  ;  and  Prescott,  an  analyst  too, 
had  moulded  his  material  into  a  unity  of  form.  Motley  had  some- 
thing of  all  these  things,  but  in  him  they  were  fused  and  modified 
into  a  remarkable  literary  power  that  has  never  been  surpassed 
by  an  American  historian.  He  had  certain  minor  faults.  In  some 
directions,  notably  in  ease  and  power  of  narrative,  he  is  surpassed 
by  Parkman.  But  for  the  large  powers  of  a  historian,  as  history 
was  understood  in  his  day,  he  has  no  superior. 

EDWARr>  EvEREiT  Hale,  Jr. 


tiiw»n-ii'iiihfri.i&iMwT?ffy^iii^iW.M 


■M^  ^^  ritfaiiariii.iii - .l^ill.l■il<l  i.iiji«i>i>Si. 'i».i^..,Ma;.iwaiifcnM.»«iiiciaia^^ 


326 


aa//:a/(.i.v  I'h'osE 


III. 

I 


THE   RliLKilON   OF  WILLIAM   UF   OKANGL 

DuRisci  all  these  triumphs  of  Alva,  the  Prince  oJ  Orange  had 
not  lost  his  self-possession.  One  after  another,  each  of  his  bold, 
skilfully-conceived  and  carefully  prepared  plans  had  failed.  Vil- 
Icrs  had  been  entirely  discomfited  at  Dalheni,  Co(  ipieville  had 
been  cut  to  pieces  in  I'icardy,  and  now  the  valiant  and  experi- 
enced l.ouis  had  met  with  an  entire  overthrow  in  Friesland.  The 
brief  success  of  the  patriots  at  Heiliger  I,ce  had  been  washed  out 
in  the  blood-torrents  of  Jemmingcn.  Tyranny  was  more  trium- 
phant, the  provinces  more  timidly  crouching,  than  ever.  The 
friends  on  whom  William  of  Orange  relied  in  Clermany,  never 
enthusiastic  in  his  cause,  although  many  of  them  true-hearted  and 
liberal,  now  grew  cold  and  anxious.  For  months  long,  his  most 
faithful  and  affectionate  allies,  such  men  as  the  Elector  of  Hesse 
and  the  Duke  of  Wirtemberg,  as  well  as  the  less  trustworthy 
Augustus  of  Saxony,  had  earnestly  expressed  their  opinion  that, 
under  the  circumstances,  his  best  course  was  to  sit  still  and  watch 
the  course  of  events. 

It  was  known  that  the  Emperor  had  written  an  urgent  letter  to 
Philip  on  the  subject  of  his  policy  in  the  Netherlands  in  general, 
and  concerning  the  position  of  Orange  in  particular.  All  per- 
sons, from  the  luiiijeror  down  to  the  pettiest  jjotentate,  seemed 
now  of  oi)inion  that  the  Prince  had  better  pause;  that  he  was, 
indeed,  bound  to  wait  the  issue  of  that  remonstrance.  "Your 
highness  must  sit  still,"  said  Landgrave  William.  "Your  high- 
ness must  sit  still,"  said  Augustus  of  Saxony.  "You  must  move 
neither  hand  nor  foot  in  the  cause  of  the  perishing  provinces," 
said  the  Emperor.  "Not  a  soldier  —  horse,  foot,  or  dragoon  — 
shall  be  levied  within  the  Empire.  If  you  violate  the  peace  of 
the  realm,  and  embroil  us  with  our  excellent  brother  and  cousin 
Philip,  it  is  at  your  own  peril.  You  have  nothing  to  do  but  to 
keep  quiet  and  await  his  answer  to  our  letter."  But  the  Prince 
knew  how  much  effect  his  sitting  still  would  produce  upon  the 
cause  of  liberty  and  religion.  He  knew  how  much  effect  the 
Emperor's  letter  was  like  to  have  upon  the  heart  of  Philip.  He 
knew  that  the  more  impenetrable  the  darkness  now  gathering  over 


XNC.L 

)f  Orange  had 
•h  of  his  bold, 
I  failed.  Vil- 
)( i|ncville  had 
nt  and  experi- 
'iesland.  The 
en  washed  out 
s  more  trium- 
\n  ever.  The 
crmany,  never 
le- hearted  and 
long,  his  most 
ector  of  Hesse 
iss  trustworthy 
r  opinion  that, 
itill  and  watch 

irgent  letter  to 
ids  in  general, 
dar.  All  per- 
entate,  seemed 
'. ;  that  he  was, 
ranee.  "  Your 
"  Your  high- 
('ou  must  move 
ng  provinces," 

or  dragoon  — 
te  the  peace  of 
her  and  cousin 
[ig  to  do  but  to 
But  the  Prince 
duce  upon  the 
luch  effect  the 
)f  Philip.     He 

gathering  over 


yojLV  /.or// A- or  motii-.y 


327 


that  land  of  doom  wiiich  he  had  dcvoird  his  life  to  defend,  the 
more  urgently  was  he  forbidden  tu  turn  his  fa(  e  away  from  it  in 
its  affliction.  He  knew  th.it  tiiousamis  of  human  souls,  nigh  tu 
perishing,  were  daily  turning  towards  liim  as  their  only  hope  on 
earth,  and  he  was  resolved,  so  lung  as  he  could  dispense  a  single 
ray  of  light,  that  his  countenance  should  never  be  averted.  It 
is  difficult  to  contemplate  his  character,  at  this  period,  without 
l)eing  infected  with  a  perhaps  dangerous  enthusiasm.  It  is  nut 
an  easy  task  coldly  to  analyze  a  nature  wh'ch  contained  so  much 
of  the  self-sacrificing  and  the  heroic,  a-,  well  as  of  the  adroit  and 
the  subtle;  and  it  is  almost  impossible  to  give  utterance  to  the 
emotions  which  naturally  swell  the  heiirt  at  the  <  ontemplation  of 
so  much  active  virtue,  without  rendering  oneself  liable  to  the 
charge  of  excessive  admiration.  Through  the  mists  of  adversity, 
a  human  "form  may  ililate  into  proportions  which  are  colossal  anil 
deceptive.  Our  judgment  may  thus,  perhaps,  be  led  captive,  but 
at  any  rate  the  sentiment  excited  is  more  healthful  than  that  in- 
spired by  the  mere  shedder  of  blood,  by  the  merely  selfish  con- 
queror. When  the  cause  of  the  champion  is  that  of  human  right 
against  tyranny,  of  political  and  religious  freedom  against  an  all- 
engrossing  and  absolute  bigotry,  it  is  still  more  <lifficult  to  restrain 
veneration  within  legitimate  bounds.  To  liberate  the  souls  and 
bodies  of  millions,  to  maintain  for  a  generous  people,  who  had 
well-nigh  lost  their  all,  those  free  institutions  whi'h  their  ances- 
tors had  beciueathed,  was  a  noble  task  for  any  man.  Put  here 
stood  a  Prince  of  aiu  ii  nt  race,  vast  possessions,  imjierial  blotxl, 
one  of  the  great  ones  of  the  earth,  whose  pathway  along  the 
beaten  track  would  have  been  smooth  and  successful,  but  who 
was  ready  to  pour  out  his  wealth  like  water,  and  to  coin  his 
heart's  blood,  drop  by  drop,  in  this  virtuous  but  almost  desperate 
cause.  He  felt  that -of  a  man  to  whom  so  much  had  been  en- 
trusted, much  was  to  be  asked,  (lod  had  endowed  him  witli  an 
incisive  and  comprehensive  genius,  unfaltering  fortitude,  and  with 
the  rank  and  fortune  which  enable  a  man  to  employ  his  faculties, 
to  the  injury  or  the  happiness  of  his  fellows,  on  the  widest  scale. 
The  Prince  felt  the  rcponsibility,  and  the  world  was  to  learn  the 
result. 

It  .was  about  this  time  that  a  deep  change  came  over  his  mind. 


ai^'^anTMftfig3--frf^rMniinii.rri'iiri-itToitf^  Yfrfr-.^-J-lK*g^fi^thiir 


^ 


.?    j 


1< 


328 


AAtKNtC.W  t'KOSE 


Hitherto,  iiltliniiuli  nominally  att.n  littl  to  the  «:onununi<)n  o(  the  an- 
(  II  lit  (  liiin  li,  I11-1 1  oiiiM'  III  life-  and  lialiits  of  iiiiiui  had  nut  led  him 
to  deal  \try  carncslly  with  tliinns  l)i>onil  the  world.     'Ihc  stvcro 
tliitits,  the  grave  character  of  the  cause  to  which  his  days  were 
hentulorth  to  he  devoted,  had  already  led  him  to  a  closer  inspec- 
tion ol  the  essential  attributes  of  (  hristianity.      He  was  now  en- 
rolled for  life  as  a  soldier  of  the  Refornuition.     The  Reformation 
was  henceforth  his  falherlanil,   the  sphere  of  his  duty  and  his 
affection.     1  he  reliKious  Relormers  became  his  brethren,  whether 
in  France,  (iermany,  the  Netherlands,  or  l-lngland.     Yet  his  mind 
had  taken  a  higher  llight  than  that  of  the  most  eminent  RefornierH. 
lli^  goal  was  not  a  new  tloctrine,  but  religious  liberty.     In  an  age 
when  to  think  was  a  crime,  and  when  bigotry  and  a  persecuting 
spirit  chaiacteri^ed    Romanists  and    Lutherans,   C'alvinists  and 
Zwinglians,  he  had  tiarcd  to  announce  Ireciloin  of  const  ience  as 
the  great  object  for  which  noble  natures  should  strive.     In  an  age 
when  toleratior.  was  a  vice,  he  had  the  manhood  to  cultivate  it  as 
a  virtue.     Mis  parting  advice  to  the  Reformers  of  the  Nethcr- 
lamls,  when  he  left  them  for  a  season  in  the  sp-ring  of   1567,  was 
to  sink  all  lesser  differences  in  religious  union.     Those  of  the 
Augsburg  Confession  and  those  of  the  I'alvinistic  Church,  in  their 
own  opinion  as  incapable  of  commingling  as  oil  and  water,  were, 
in  his  iudgmo.i,  capable  of  friendly  amalgamativ/i'.     lie  appealed 
clo-iucntl)  to  the  good  and  inlluential  of  all  parties  to  unite  in 
one  common  cause  against  opi  'o-sion.     Kven  while  favoring  daily 
more  ■^•^''  more  the  cause  of  the  purified  Church,  and  becoming 
I  ilv  nore  alive  to  the  corruption  of  Rome,  he  was  yet  willing  to 
tolerate  all  forms  of  worship,  and  to  leave  reason  to  combat  error. 
V/ithuat  a   1  article  of  cant  or  fanaticism,   he  had  become  a 
deeply  religious  man.     Hitherto  he  had  been  only  a  man  of  the 
world  and  a  statesman,  but  from  this  time  forth  he  began  calmly 
to  rely  upon  Clod's  providence   in  all   the  emergencies  of   his 
eventful  life.     His  letters  written  to  his  most  confidential  friends, 
to  be  read  only  by  themselves,  and  which  have  been  gazed  upon 
by  no  other  eyes  until  after  the  lapse  of  nearly  three  centuries, 
abundantly  prove  his  sincere  and  simple  trust.      This  sentiment 
was  not  assumed  for  effect  to  delude  others,  but  cherished  as  a 
secret  support  for  himself.     His  rel'gion  was  not  a  cloak  to  his 


"^^^Skf»i&y'M'^^ 


iiiiionof  the  an- 
l);i(l  iiiit  ltd  liini 
il.  'I  lie  St  vcrc 
1  his  (lays  were 

I  closiT  inspec- 
le  was  now  cn- 
iie  KcformatiDn 
s  duty  and  his 
cthrcn,  whether 
,  Yet  his  mind 
lent  Reformers. 
L-rly.     In  an  age 

II  n  persecuting 
C'aivinists  and 

f  const  ience  as 
rive.  In  an  age 
o  cultivate  it  as 

of  the  Nether- 
ig  of  1567,  was 
Those  of  the 
Church,  in  their 
ind  water,  were, 
\  lie  appealed 
rties  to  unite  in 
ie  favoring  daily 
I,  and  becoming 
as  yet  willing  to 
to  combat  error. 
;  had  become  a 
ly  a  man  of  the 
he  began  calmly 
irgencies  of  his 
Rdential  friends, 
>een  gazed  upon 
three  centuries. 

This  sentiment 
it  cherished  as  a 
)t  a  cloak  to  his 


1 


yo//y  t.oTiiKop  Mori.EY 


339 


designs,  but  a  consolation  in  his  disasters.  In  his  letter  of  in- 
struction to  his  must  c-oiiluh-ntial  agrnt,  John  lia/ius,  while  lie 
declared  himself  frankly  in  lavor  of  the  rrotestaiit  principles,  he 
expressed  his  extreme  rcp'-^inncc  to  the  persecution  of  Catholics. 
"Should  we  obtain  powc  over  any  city  or  cities,"  he  wrote,  "let 
the  communities  of  jiapists  be  as  much  respected  and  protected 
as  possible.  Let  them  be  overcome,  not  by  violence,  but  with 
gentle-iuindcdiu'ss  and  virtuous  treatment."  After  the  terrilile 
disaster  at  Jemmingen,  ue  had  written  to  Louis,  consoling  him, 
in  the  most  affectionate  language,  for  the  unfortunate  result  of 
his  campaign.  Not  a  word  of  reproach  escajjcd  from  him, 
although  his  brother  had  conducted  the  operations  in  Kriesland, 
after  the  battle  of  Ileiliger  I.ee,  in  a  manner  quite  contrary  to 
his  own  advice.  He  had  counselled  against  a  battle,  and  had 
foretold  a  defeat;  but  after  the  battle  had  been  fought  and  a 
crushing  defeat  sustained,  his  language  breathed  only  unwavering 
submission  to  the  will  of  (lod,  and  continue<l  confidence  in  his 
own  courage.  "You  may  be  well  assured,  my  brother,"  he  wrote, 
"  that  1  have  never  felt  anything  more  keenly  than  the  pitiable  mis- 
fortune which  has  happened  to  you,  for  many  reasons  which  you 
can  easily  imagine.  Moreover,  it  hinders  us  much  in  the  levy 
which  we  are  making,  anil  has  greatly  chilled  the  hearts  of  those 
who  otherwise  would  have  been  ready  to  give  us  assistance.  Nev- 
ertheless, since  it  has  thus  pleased  Cod,  it  is  necessary  to  have 
])atience  and  to  lose  not  courage;  conforming  ourselves  to  His 
divine  will,  as  for  my  part  I  have  determined  to  do  in  everything 
which  may  happen,  still  proceeding  onward  in  our  work  with  His 
Almighty  aid."  Soevi^  tranquilliis  in  uiu/is,  he  was  never  more 
placid  than  when  the  storm  was  wildest  and  the  night  darkest. 
He  drew  his  consolations  and  refreshed  his  courage  at  the  never- 
failing  fountains  of  Divine  mercy. 

"I  go  tomorrow,"  he  wrote  to  the  unworthy  Anne  of  Saxony; 
"but  when  I  shall  return,  or  when  I  shall  see  you,  I  cannot,  on 
my  honor,  tell  you  with  certainty.  I  have  resolved  to  place  my- 
self in  the  hands  of  the  Almighty,  that  He  may  guide  me  whither 
it  is  His  good  pleasure  that  I  should  go.  I  see  well euou^h  that  I 
am  ilestineJ  to  />ass  this  life  in  misery  and  labor,  with  which  I  am 
well  content,  since  it  thus  pleases  the  Omnipotent,  for  I  know  that  I 


330 


AMERICAN  PK03E 


have  merited  still  greater  chastisement.      I  only  implore  Hmi 
graciously  to  send  me  strength  to  endure  with  patience." 

Sucli  language,  in  letters  the  most  private,  never  meant  to  be 
seen  by  other  eyes  than  those  to  which  they  were  addressed,  gives 
touching  testimony  to  the  sincere  piety  of  his  character.  No  man 
was  ever  more  devoted  to  a  high  purpose,  no  man  had  ever  more 
right  to  imagine  himself,  or  less  inclination  to  pronounce  him- 
self, entrusted  with  a  divine  mission.  There  was  nothing  of  the 
charlatan  in  his  character.  His  nature  was  true  and  steadfast. 
No  narrow-minded  usurper  was  ever  more  loyal  to  his  own 
aggrandisement  than  this  large-hearted  man  to  the  cause  of 
oppressed  humanity.  Yet  it  was  inevitable  that  baser  minds 
should  fail  to  recognise  his  purity.  While  he  exhausted  his  life 
for  the  emancipation  of  a  people,  it  was  easy  to  ascribe  all  his 
struggles  to  the  hope  of  founding  a  dynasty.  It  was  natural  for 
grovelling  natures  to  search  in  the  gross  soil  of  self-interest  for 
the  sustaining  roots  of  the  tree  beneath  whose  branches  a  nation 
found  its  shelter.  What  could  they  comprehend  of  living  foun- 
tains and  of  heavenly  dews? 


[From  Tht  A'ise  of  the  Dutch  Republic. 
ter  4-] 


A  History.     1856.     Part  iii,  chap- 


THE   RELIEF   OF   LEYDEN 

Meantime,  the  besieged  city  was  at  its  last  gasp.  The  burghers 
had  been  in  a  state  of  uncertainty  for  many  days;  being  aware 
that  the  fleet  had  set  forth  for  their  relief,  but  knowing  full  well 
the  thousand  obstacles  which  it  had  to  surmount.  They  had 
guessed  its  progress  by  the  illumination  from  the  blazing  vil- 
lages; they  had  heard  its  salvos  of  artillery,  on  its  arrival  at 
North  Aa;  but  since  then,  all  had  been  dark  and  mournful  again, 
hope  and  fear,  in  sickening  alternation,  distracting  every  breast. 
They  knew  that  the  wind  was  unfavorable,  and  at  the  dawn  of 
each  day  every  eye  was  turned  wistfully  to  the  vanes  of  the 
steeples.  So  long  as  the  easterly  breeze  prevailed,  they  felt,  as 
they  anxiously  stood  on  towers  and  housetops,  that  they  must 
look  in  vain  for  the  welcome  ocean.     Yet,  while  thus  patiently 


f  implore  Him 
ience." 

ver  meant  to  be 
itidresied,  gives 
acter.  No  man 
1  had  ever  more 
pronounce  him- 
5  nothing  of  the 
K  and  steadfast, 
^-al   to   his  own 

0  the  cause  of 
lat  baser  minds 
<hausted  his  life 
3  ascribe  all  his 
t  was  natural  for 

self-interest  for 
ranches  a  nation 

1  of  living  foun- 

856.     Part  iii,  chap- 


■).  The  burghers 
lys;  being  aware 
tnowing  full  well 
>unt.  They  had 
the  blazing  vil- 
on  its  arrival  at 
I  mournful  again, 
ing  every  breast. 
1  at  the  dawn  of 
he  vanes  of  the 
iled,  they  felt,  as 
i,  that  they  must 
ile  thus  patiently 


JOHN  LOTHROP  MOTLEY 


331 


waiting,  they  were  literally  starving;  for  even  the  misery  endured 
at  Harlem  had  not  reached  that  depth  and  intensity  of  agony  to 
which  Leyden  was  now  reduced.  Bread,  malt-cake,  horse-flesh, 
had  entirely  disappeared;  dogs,  cats,  rats,  and  other  vermin, 
weie  esteemed  luxuries.  A  small  number  of  cows,  kept  as  long 
as  possible,  for  their  milk,  still  remained;  but  a  few  were  killed 
from  Liay  to  day,  and  distributed  in  minr.te  proportions,  hardly 
sufficient  to  support  life  among  the  famishing  population.  Starv- 
ing wretches  swarmed  daily  around  the  shambles  where  these 
cattle  were  slaughtered,  contending  for  any  morsel  which  might 
fall,  and  lapping  eagerly  the  blood  as  it  ran  along  the  pavement; 
while  the  hides,  chopped  and  boiled,  were  greedily  devoured. 
Women  and  children,  all  day  long,  were  searching  gutters  and 
dunghills  for  morsels  of  food,  which  tiiey  disputed  fiercely  with 
the  famishing  dogs.  'J'he  green  leaves  were  stripped  from  the 
trees,  every  living  herb  was  converted  into  human  food,  but  these 
expedients  could  not  avert  starvation.  The  daily  mortality  was 
frightful  —  infants  starved  to  death  on  the  maternal  breasts,  which 
famine  had  parched  and  withered;  mothers  dropjjcd  dead  in  the 
streets,  with  their  dead  children  in  their  arms.  In  many  a  house 
the  watchmen,  in  their  rounds,  found  a  whole  family  of  corpses, 
father,  mother,  children,  side  by  side,  for  a  disorder  called  the 
plague,  naturally  engendered  of  hardship  and  famine,  now  came, 
as  if  in  kindness,  to  abridge  the  agony  of  the  people.  The  pes- 
tilence stalked  at  noonday  through  the  city,  and  the  doomed  in- 
habitants fell  like  grass  beneath  its  scythe.  From  six  thousand 
to  eight  thousand  human  beings  sank  before  this  scourge  alone, 
yet  the  people  resolutely  held  out  —  women  and  men  mutually 
encouraging  each  other  to  resist  the  entrance  of  their  foreign  foe 
—  an  evil  more  horrible  than  pest  or  famine. 

The  missives  from  Valdez,  who  saw  more  vividly  than  the 
besieged  could  do,  the  uncertainty  of  his  own  position,  now 
poured  daily  into  the  city,  ihe  enemy  becoming  more  prodigal 
of  his  vows,  as  he  felt  that  the  ocean  might  yet  save  the  victims 
from  his  grasp.  The  inhabitants,  in  their  ignorance,  had  gradu- 
ally abandoned  their  hopes  of  relief,  but  they  spurned  the  sum- 
mons to  surrender.  Leyden  was  sublime  in  its  despair.  A  few 
murmurs  were,  however,  occasionally  heard  at  the  steadfastness 


£t 


332 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


of  the  magistrates,  and  a  dead  body  was  placed  at  the  door  of  the 
burgomaster,  as  a  silent  witness  against  his  inflexibility.  A  party 
of  the  more  faint-hearted  even  assailed  the  heroic  Adrian  Van 
der  Werf  with  threats  and  reproaches  as  he  passed  through  the 
streets.  A  crowd  had  gathered  around  him,  as  he  reached  a 
triangular  place  in  the  centre  of  the  town,  into  which  many  of 
the  |)rincipal  streets  emptied  th-.-mselves,  and  upon  one  side 
of  which  stood  the  church  of  baint  Pancras,  with  its  high  brick 
tower  surmounted  by  two  pointed  turrets,  and  with  two  ancient 
lime  trees  at  its  entrance.  There  stood  the  burgomaster,  a  tali, 
haggard,  imposing  figure,  with  dark  visage,  and  a  tranquil  but  com- 
maniling  eye.  He  waved  his  broad-leaved  felt  hat  for  silence,  and 
then  exclaimed,  in  language  which  has  been  almost  literally  pre- 
served, "What  would  ye,  my  friends?  ^Vhy  do  you  murmur  that 
we  do  not  break  our  vows  and  surrender  the  city  to  the  Spaniards? 
a  fate  more  horrible  than  the  agony  which  she  now  endures.  I 
tell  you  I  have  made  an  oath  to  hold  the  city,  and  may  God  give 
me  strength  to  keep  my  oath!  I  can  die  but  once;  whether  by 
your  hands,  the  enemy's,  or  by  the  hand  of  God.  My  own  fate 
is  indifferent  to  me,  not  so  that  of  the  city  intrusted  to  my  care. 
I  know  that  we  shall  starve  if  not  soon  relieved:  but  starvation 
is  preferable  to  the  dishonored  deaih  which  is  the  only  alterna- 
tive. Your  menaces  move  me  not;  my  life  is  at  your  disposal; 
here  is  my  sword,  plunge  it  into  my  breast,  and  divide  my  flesh 
among  you.  Take  my  body  to  appease  your  hunger,  but  expect 
no  surrender,  so  long  as  I  remain  alive." 

The  words  of  the  stout  burgomaster  inspired  a  new  courage  in 
the  hearts  of  those  who  heard  him,  and  a  shout  of  applause  and 
defiance  arose  from  the  famishing  but  enthusiastic  crowd.  They 
left  the  place,  after  exchanging  new  vows  of  fidelivy  with  their 
magistrate,  and  again  ascended  tower  and  battlement  to  watch  for 
the  coming  fleet.  From  the  ramparts  they  hurled  renewed  defi- 
ance at  the  enemy.  "Ye  call  us  rat-eaters  and  dog-eaters,"  they 
cried,  "and  it  is  true.  So  long,  then,  as  ye  hear  dog  bark  or  cat 
mew  within  the  walls,  ye  may  know  that  the  city  holds  out.  And 
when  all  has  perished  but  ourselves,  be  sure  that  we  will  each 
devour  our  left  arms,  retaining  our  right  to  defend  our  women, 
our  liberty,  and  our  religion,  against  the  foreign  tyrant.     Should 


he  door  of  the 
lity.  A  party 
ic  Adrian  Van 
d  through  the 

he  reached  a 
ivhich  many  of 
pon  one   side 

its  high  brick 
th  two  ancient 
jmaster,  a  tail, 
nquil  but  com- 
or  silence,  and 
it  literally  pre- 
lU  murmur  that 
the  Spaniards? 
w  endures.      I 

may  God  give 

:e ;  whether  by 

My  own  fate 

ed  to  my  care. 

but  starvation 
le  only  alterna- 

your  disposal; 
divide  my  flesh 
ger,  but  expect 

new  courage  in 
5f  applause  and 
:  crowd.  They 
eliiy  with  their 
ent  to  watch  for 
d  renewed  defi- 
3g-eaters,"  they 
dog  bark  or  cat 
lolds  out.  And 
at  we  will  each 
;nd  our  women, 
tyrant.     Should 


JOHN  LOT  UK  OP  MOTLEY 


333 


God,  in  his  wrath,  doom  us  to  destruction,  and  deny  us  all  relief, 
even  then  will  we  maintain  ourselves  for  ever  against  your  en- 
trance. When  the  last  hour  has  come,  with  our  hands  we  will 
set  fire  to  the  city  and  perish,  men,  women,  and  children  together 
in  the  flames,  rather  than  suffer  our  homes  to  be  polluted  and  our 
liberties  to  be  crushed."  Such  words  of  defiance,  thundered  daily 
from  the  battlements,  sufficiently  informed  Vaklez  as  to  his  chance 
of  conquering  the  city,  either  by  force  or  fraud,  but  at  the  same 
time,  he  felt  comparatively  relieved  by  the  inactivity  of  Boisot's 
fleet,  which  still  lay  stranded  at  North  Aa.  "As  well,"  shouted 
the  Spaniards,  derisively,  to  the  citizens,  "as  well  can  the  Prince 
of  Orange  jiluck  the  stars  from  the  sky  as  bring  the  ocean  to  the 
walls  of  Leyden  for  your  relief." 

On  the  28th  of  September,  a  dove  flew  into  the  city,  bringing 
a  letter  from  Admiral  IJoisot.  In  this  despatch,  the  position  of 
the  fleet  at  North  Aa  was  described  in  encouraging  terms,  and 
the  inhabitants  were  assured  that,  in  a  very  few  days  at  fur- 
thest, the  long-expected  relief  would  enter  their  gates.  The 
letter  was  i^ad  publicly  upon  the  market-place,  and  the  bells 
were  rung  for  joy.  Nevertheless,  on  the  morrow,  the  vanes 
pointed  to  the  east,  the  waters,  so  far  from  rising,  continued  to 
sink,  and  Admiral  Boisot  was  almost  in  despair.  He  wrote  to 
the  Prince,  that  if  the  spring-tide,  now  to  be  expected,  should 
not,  together  with  a  strong  and  favorable  wind,  come  immedi- 
ately to  their  relief,  it  wo\ild  be  in  vain  to  attempt  anything 
further,  and  that  the  expedition  would,  of  necessity,  be  aban- 
doned. The  tempest  came  to  their  relief.  A  violent  equinoc- 
tial gale,  on  the  night  of  the  ist  and  2nd  of  October,  came 
storming  from  the  north-west,  shifting  after  a  few  hours  full 
eight  points,  and  then  blowing  still  more  violently  from  the 
south-west.  he  waters  of  the  North  Sea  were  piled  in  vast 
masses  upoK  the  southern  coast  of  Holland,  and  then  dashed 
furiously  landward,  the  ocean  rising  over  the  earth,  and  sweep- 
ing with  unrestrained  power  across  the  ruined  dykes. 

In  the  course  of  twenty-four  hours,  the  fleet  at  North  Aa,  in- 
stead of  nine  inches,  had  more  than  two  feet  of  water.  No  time 
was  lost.  'J'he  Kiik-way,  which  had  been  broken  through  accord- 
ing to  the  Prince's  instructions,  was  now  completely  overflowed. 


334 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


and  the  fleet  sailed  at  midnight,  in  the  midst  of  the  storm  and 
darkness.  A  few  sentinel  vessels  of  the  enemy  challenged  them 
as  they  steadily  rowed  towards  Zoeterwoiide.  The  answer  was  a 
flash  from  Boisot's  cannon,  lighting  u[)  the  black  waste  of 
waters.  There  was  a  fierce  naval  midnight  battle;  a  strange  spec- 
tacle among  the  branches  of  those  quiet  orchards,  and  with  the 
chimney  stacks  of  half-submerged  farm  houses  rising  around  the 
-.ontending  vessels.  The  neighboring  village  of  Zoeterwoude  shook 
with  the  discharges  of  the  Zealanders'  cannon,  and  the  Spaniards 
assembled  in  that  fortress  knew  that  the  rebel  Admiral  was  at  last 
afloat  and  on  his  course.  The  enemy's  vessels  were  soon  sunk, 
their  crews  hurled  into  the  waves.  On  went  the  fleet,  sweeping 
over  the  broad  waters  which  lay  between  Zoeterwoude  and  Zwie- 
ten.  As  they  approached  some  shallows,  which  led  into  the  great 
mere,  the  Zealanders  dashed  into  the  sea,  and  with  sheer  strength 
shouldered  every  vessel  through.  Two  obstacles  lay  still  in  their 
path  —  the  forts  of  Zoeterwoude  and  lammen,  distant  from  the 
city  five  hundred  and  two  hundred  and  fifty  yards  respectively. 
Strong  redoubts,  both  well  supplied  with  troops  and  artillery,  they 
were  likely  to  give  a  rough  reception  to  the  light  flotilla,  but  the 
panic,  which  had  hitherto  driven  their  foes  before  the  advancing 
patriots,  had  reached  Zoeterwoude.  Hardly  was  the  fleet  in  sight 
when  the  Spaniards,  in  the  early  morning,  poured  out  from  the 
fortress,  and  fled  precipitately  to  the  left,  along  a  road  which  led 
in  a  westerly  direction  towards  the  Hague.  Their  narrow  path 
was  rapidly  vanishing  in  the  waves,  and  hundreds  sank  beneath 
the  constantly  deeiH-ning  and  treacherous  flood.  The  wild  Zea- 
landers, too,  sprang  from  their  vessels  upon  the  crumbling  dyke 
and  drove  their  retreating  foes  into  the  sea.  They  hurled  their 
harpoons  at  them,  with  an  accuracy  acquired  in  many  a  polar 
chase;  they  plunged  into  the  waves  in  the  keen  pursuit,  attacking 
them  with  boat-hook  and  dagger.  The  numbers  who  thus  fell 
beneath  these  corsairs,  who  neither  gave  nor  took  quarter,  were 
never  counted,  but  probably  not  less  than  a  thousand  perished. 
The  rest  effected  their  escape  to  the  Hague. 

The  first  fortress  was  thus  seized,  dismantled,  set  on  fire,  and 
passed,  and  a  few  strokes  of  the  oars  brought  the  whole  fleet 
close  to  Lammen.     This  last  obstacle  rose  formidable  and  frown- 


the  storm  and 
illenged  them 
answer  was  a 
lack  waste  of 
strange  spec- 
and  with  the 
ng  around  the 
irwoude  shook 
the  Spaniards 
ral  was  at  last 
;re  soon  sunk, 
leet,  sweeping 
ide  and  Zwie- 
into  the  great 
sheer  strength 
y  still  in  their 
stant  from  the 
s  respectively. 
1  artillery,  they 
lotilla,  but  the 
the  advancing 
e  fleet  in  sight 
i  out  from  the 
road  which  led 
ir  narrow  path 
3  sank  beneath 
The  wild  Zea- 
rumbling  dyke 
ey  hurled  their 
many  a  polar 
rsuit,  attacking 
1  who  thus  fell 
k  quarter,  were 
sand  perished. 

set  on  fire,  and 
;he  whole  fleet 
\ble  and  frown- 


JOHN  LOTIIROP  MOTLEY 


335 


ing  directly  across  their  path.  Swarming  as  it  was  with  soldiers, 
and  bristling  with  artillery,  it  seemed  to  defy  the  irmada  either 
to  carry  it  by  storm  or  to  pass  under  its  guns  into  the  city.  It 
appeared  that  the  enterprise  was,  after  all,  to  founder  within  sight 
of  the  long  expecting  and  expected  haven.  Boisot  anchored  his 
fleet  within  a  respectful  distance,  and  spent  what  remained  of 
the  day  in  carefully  reconnoitring  the  fort,  which  seemed  only 
too  strong.  In  conjunction  with  Leyderdorp,  the  head-quarters 
of  Valdez,  a  mile  and  a  half  distant  on  the  right,  and  within  a 
mile  of  the  city,  it  seemed  so  insuperable  an  impediment  that 
Boisot  wrote  in  despondent  tone  to  the  Prince  of  Orange.  He 
announced  his  intention  of  carrying  the  fort,  if  it  were  possible, 
on  the  following  morning,  but  if  obliged  to  retreat,  he  observed, 
with  something  like  despair,  that  there  would  be  nothing  for  it 
but  to  wait  for  another  gale  of  wind.  If  the  waters  should  rise 
sufficiently  to  enable  them  to  make  a  wide  detour,  it  might  be 
possible,  if,  in  the  meantime,  Leyden  did  not  starve  or  sur- 
render, to  enter  its  gates  from  the  opposite  side. 

Meantime,  the  citizens  had  grown  wild  with  expectation.  A 
dove  had  been  despatched  by  Boisot,  informing  them  of  his 
precise  position,  and  a  number  of  citizens  accompanied  the  bur- 
gomaster, at  nightfall,  toward  the  tower  of  Hengist  —  "Yonder," 
cried  the  magistrate,  stretching  out  his  hand  towards  Lammen, 
"yonder,  behind  that  fort,  are  bread  and  meat,  and  brethren  in 
thousands.  Shall  all  this  be  destroyed  by  the  Spanish  guns,  or 
shall  we  rush  to  the  rescue  of  our  friends?"  "We  will  tear  the 
fortress  to  fragments  with  our  teeth  and  nails,"  was  the  reply, 
"before  the  relief,  so  long  expected,  shall  be  wrested  from  us." 
It  was  resolved  that  a  sortie,  in  conjunction  with  the  operations 
of  Boisot,  should  be  made  against  Lammen  with  the  earliest 
dawn.  Night  descended  upon  the  scene,  a  pitch  dark  night,  full 
of  anxiety  to  the  Spaniards,  to  the  armada,  to  Leyden.  Strange 
sights  and  sounds  occurred  at  different  moments  to  bewilder  the 
anxious  sentinels.  A  long  procession  of  lights  issuing  from  the 
fort  was  seen  to  flit  across  the  black  face  of  the  waters,  in  the  dead 
of  night,  and  the  whole  of  the  city  wall,  between  the  Cow-gate  and 
the  Tower  of  Burgundy,  fell  with  a  loud  crash.  The  horror-struck 
citizens  thought  that  the  Spaniards  were  upon  them  at  last;  the 


i£»^.» 


-s 


.--/ 


..yMMtSMiamSlii^^, 


i 


If 


336  AMERICAN  PROSE 

Spaniards  imagined  the  noise  to  indicate  a  desperate  sortie  of  the 
citizens.     Everything  was  vague  and  mysterious. 

Day   dawned,   at   length,   after   the    feverish   night,   and   the 
Admiral  prepared  for  the  assault.     Within  the  fortress  reigned  a 
death-like  stillness,  which  inspired  a  sickening  suspicion.     Had 
the  city,   indeed,  been  carried  in  the  night;  had  the  massacre 
already  commenced;  had  all  this  labor  and  audacity  been  ex- 
pended in  vain?     Suddenly  a  man  was  descried,  wading  breast- 
high  through  the  water  from  Lammen  towards  the  fleet,  while  at 
the  same  time,  one  solitary  boy  was  seen  to  wave  his  cap  from 
the  summit  of  the  fort.     After  a  moment  of  doubt,  the  happy 
mystery  was  solved.     The  Spaniards  had  fled,  panic  struck,  dur- 
ing the  darkness.     'I'heir  position  would  still  have  enabled  them, 
with  firmness,  to  frustrate  the  enterprise  of  the  patriots,  but  the 
hand  of  (Jod,  which  had  sent  the  ocean  and  the  tempest  to  the 
deliverance  of  I.eyden,  had  struck  her  enemies  with  terror  like- 
wise.     The  lights  which  had  been  seen  moving  during  the  night 
were  the  lanterns  of  the  retreating  Spaniards,  and  the  boy  who 
was  now  waving  his  triumphant  signal  from  the  battlements  had 
alone  witnessed  the  spectacle.     So  confident  was  he  in  the  con- 
clusion to  which  it  led  him,  that  he  had  volunteered  at   day- 
break to  go  thither  all  alone.     The  magistrates,  fearing  a  trap, 
hesitated  for  a  moment  to  believe  the  truth,  which  soon,  how- 
ever, became  quite  evident.     Valdez,  flying  himself  from  Ley- 
derdorp,  had  ordered  Colonel  Borgia  to  retire  with  all  his  troops 
from  I,ammen.     'I'hus,  the  Spaniards  had  retreated  at  the  very 
moment  that  an  extraordinary  accident  had  laid  bare  a  whole  side 
of  the  city  for  their  entrance.     The  noise  of  the  wall,  as  it  fell, 
only  inspired  them  with  fresh  alarm;  for  they  believed  that  the 
citizens  had  sallied  forth  in  the  darkness,  to  aid  the  advancing 
flood  in  the  work  of  destruction.     All  obstacles  being  now  re- 
moved, the  fleet  of  Boisot  swept  by  Lammen,  and  entered  the 
city  on  the  morning  of  the  3d  of  October.    Leydei.  was  relieved. 

The  quays  were  lined  with  the  famishing  [lopulation,  as  the 
fleet  rowed  through  the  canals,  every  human  being  who  could 
stand,  coming  forth  to  greet  the  preservers  of  the  city.  Bread 
wa.  thrown  from  every  vessel  among  the  crowd.  The  poor  creat- 
ures, who  for  two  months  had  tasted  no  wholesome  human  food, 


e  sortie  of  the 

ght,  and  the 
ress  reigned  a 
picion.     Had 

the  massacre 
city  been  ex- 
irading  breast- 
fleet,  while  at 

his  cap  from 
ibt,  the  happy 
ic  struck,  dur- 
enabled  them, 
triots,  but  the 
:empest  to  the 
ith  terror  like- 
iring  the  night 
d  the  boy  who 
ittlements  had 
he  in  the  con- 
eered  at  day- 
fearing  a  trap, 
ich  soon,  how- 
self  from  Ley- 
1  all  his  troops 
ed  at  the  very 
re  a  whole  side 
wall,  as  it  fell, 
ieved  that  the 

the  advancing 
being  now  re- 
id  entered  the 
L  was  relieved, 
ulation,  as  the 
ing  who  could 
e  city.  Bread 
rhe  poor  creat- 
e  human  food, 


JOHN  LOTHROP  MOTLEY 


337 


and  who  had  literally  been  living  within  the  jaws  of  death, 
snatched  eagerly  the  blessed  gift,  at  last  too  liberally  bestowed. 
Many  choked  themselves  to  death,  in  the  greediness  with  which 
they  devoured  their  bread;  others  became  ill  with  the  effects  of 
plenty  thus  suddenly  succeeding  starvation;  —  but  these  were  iso- 
lated cases,  a  repetition  of  which  was  prevented.      The  Admiral, 
stepping  ashore,  was  welcomed  by  the  magistracy,  and  a  solemn 
procession  was  immediately  formed.     Magistrates  and  citizens, 
wild   Zealanders,   emaciated   burgher   guards,    sailors,    soldiers, 
women,  children,  —  nearly  every  living  person  within  the  walls, 
all  repaired  without  delay  to  the  great  churcii,  stout  Admiral 
Boisot  leading  the  way.     The  starving  and  heroic  city,  which 
had  been  so  firm  in  its  resistance  to  an  earthly  king,  now  bent 
itself  in  humble  gratitude  before  the  King  of  kings.     After  pray- 
ers, the  whole  vast  congregation  joined  in  the  thanksgiving  hymn. 
Thousands  of  voices  raised  the  song,  but  few  were  able  to  carry 
it  to  its  conclusion,  f-r  the  universal  emotion,  deepened  by  the 
music,  became  too  full  for  uUerance.     The  hymn  was  abruptly 
suspend>?d,  while  the  multitude  wept  like  children.     This  scene 
of  honest  pathos  terminated,  the  necessary  measures  for  distrib- 
uting the  food  and  for  relieving  the  sick  were  taken  by  the  magis- 
tracy.    A  note  despatched  to  the  Prince  of  Orange,  was  received 
by  him  at  two  o'clock,  as  he  sat  in  church  at  Delft.     It  was  of  a 
somewhat  different  purport  from  that  of  the  letter  which  he  had 
received  early  in  the  same  day  from  Boisot;  the  letter  in  which 
the  Admiral  had  informed  him  that  the  success  of  the  enterprise 
depended,  after  all,  upon  the  desperate  assault  upon  a  nearly 
impregnable  fort.     The  joy  of  the  Prince  may  be  easily  imag- 
ined, and  so  soon  as  the  sermon  was  concluded,  he  handed  the 
letter  just  received  to  the  minister,  to  be  read  to  the  congrega- 
tion.    Thus,  all  participated  in  his  joy,  and  united  with  him  in 
thanksgiving. 

[From  The  Rise  of  the  Dutch  Republic,  part  iv,  chapter  2.] 


..VSjaWesas— ^^-^ 


r 


HENRY   DAVID   THOREAU 

[Henry  David  Thoreau  was  born  in  Concord,  Mass.,  July  12,  1817,  and 
died  there  May  6,  1862.  His  father,  a  pencil-maker,  was  the  son  of  a  lioston 
merchant,  who  came  of  a  Jersey  family  of  French  extraction,  and  had  emi- 
grated to  America  in  1773.  Both  I'horeau's  mother  and  grandmcther  were 
Scotch.  He  was  educated  at  Harvard  College,  where  he  was  graduated  in 
1837.  For  a  few  years  he  taught  school,  and  at  times,  in  later  years,  he 
lectured,  but  throughout  his  life  he  preferred  to  sujiport  himself  largely  by 
the  work  of  his  hands.  1  le  was  an  expert  pencil-maker,  an  excellent  surveyor, 
and  by  the  intermittent  exercise  of  these  employments,  as  well  as  by  farm 
work,  he  earned  enough  to  supply  his  simple  wants  and  the  needs  of  the 
relatives  who  were  at  times  dependent  upon  him.  He  was  on  intimate  terms 
with  the  little  band  of  American  transcendentalists,  especially  with  Fmerson, 
at  whose  house  he  lived  for  some  years,  repaying  the  cost  of  his  maintenance 
b;'  his  labor.  But  wherever  Thoreau  lived,  and  whatever  was  his  occupation, 
his  prevailing  passion  was  a  deep  and  constant  delight  in  nature.  Much  of 
his  time  was  spent  in  the  open  air  in  pleasant  companionship,  or,  more  com- 
monly still,  alone. )  He  was  thoroughly  familiar  with  the  woods,  fields,  and 
waters  about  his  native  place,  and  made  longer  journeys,  on  several  occasions, 
to  Cape  Cod,  the  Maine  forests,  and  the  White  Mountains.  His  ruling  pas- 
sions—  his  love  for  simplicity  and  indeuendence  and  his  love  for  nature  —  were 
perhaps  most  completely  and  naturallyVratified  when  he  spent  more  than  two 
years  in  a  little  hut  which  he  built  oil  Walden  Pond  near  Concord,  tilling  a 
small  plot  of  ground,  and  depending  for  sustenance  and  for  enjoyment  almost 
entirely  on  his  own  resources.  Thoreau  was  a  man  wliose  personal  views 
and  tenets  were  carried  out  to  the  point  of  eccentricity;  but  his  life  was 
blameless  and  he  was  loved  and  respected  by  all  who  knew  him. 

Only  two  books  of  Thoreau's  were  published  during  his  lifetime,  A  IVtek 
on  the  Concord  and  Aferrimaek  Rivtrs  ( 1 848)  and  Walden  ;  or  Life  in  the  IVoods 
(1854).  He  contributed,  however,  to  several  periodicals,  and  these  essays  and 
addresses,  together  with  much  matter  from  his  journals  and  other  papers,  have 
since  been  issued  in  the  following  volumes :  Excursions  (1863),  The  Maine 
Woods  (1863),  Cape  Cod  (1865),  Letters  to  Various  Persons  (1865),  A  Yan- 
kee in  Canada,  with  Anti-Slavery  and  Reform  Papers  (1866),  Early  Spring 
in  Massachusetts  (1881),  Summer  (1884),  Winter  {i9i&i).  Autumn  {\^2), 
Familiar  Letters  (1894).] 

There  has  been  in  America  no  such  instance  of  posthumous 
reputation  as  in  the  case  of  Thoreau.     Poe  and  Whitman  may 

338 


) 


2,  l8i7,  and 

I  uf  a  lioston 
ind  had  emi- 
Imcther  were 
graduated  in 
iter  years,  he 
:lf  largely  by 
lent  surveyor, 

II  as  by  farm 
needs  of  the 
itimate  terms 
ith  Kinerson, 
maintenance 

s  occupation, 
re.  Much  of 
ir,  more  com- 
s,  fields,  and 
ral  occasions, 
Is  ruling  pas- 
lature  —  were 
ore  than  two 
cord,  tilling  a 
yment  almost 
srsonal  views 
his  life  was 

ime,  A  IVtek 
r  in  the  IVoods 
se  essays  and 
papers,  have 
,  The  Maine 
\6t,),A  Van- 
Early  Spring 
ttimn  {lSg2), 


posthumous 
litman  may 


HENRY  DAVin    TIIOREAU 


339 


be  claimed  as  parallels,  but  not  justly.  Poe  even  during  his  life 
rode  often  on  the  very  wave  of  success,  until  it  subsided  presently 
beneath  him,  always  to  rise  again,  had  he  but  made  it  possible. 
Whitman  gathered  almost  immediately  a  small  but  stanch  band 
of  followers,  who  have  held  by  him  with  such  vehemence  and 
such  flagrant  imitation  as  to  keep  his  name  defiantly  in  evidence, 
while  perhaps  enhancing  the  antagonism  of  his  critics.  Thoreau 
could  be  egotistical  enough,  but  was  always  high-minded  ;  all  was 
6pen  and  above  board  ;  one  could  as  soon  conceive  of  self-advertis- 
ing by  a  deer  in  the  woods  or  an  otter  of  the  brook.  He  had  no 
organized  clique  of  admirers,  nor  did  he  possess  even  what  is 
called  personal  charm  —  or  at  least  only  that  j)iquant  attraction 
which  he  himself  found  in  wild  apples.  As  a  rule,  he  kept  men 
at  a  distance,  being  busy  with  his  own  affairs.  He  left  neither 
wife  nor  children  to  attend  to  his  memory  ;  and  his  sister  seemed 
for  a  time  to  repress  the  publication  of  his  manuscripts.  Yet  this 
plain,  shy,  retired  student,  who  when  thirty-two  years  old  carried 
the  unsold  edition  of  his  first  book  upon  his  back  to  his  attic  cham- 
ber ;  who  died  at  forty-four  still  unknown  to  the  general  public  ;  this 
child  of  obscurity,  who  printed  but  two  volumes  during  his  life- 
time, has  had  ten  volumes  of  his  writings  published  by  others  since 
his  death,  while  four  biographies  of  him  have  been  issued  in 
America  (by  Emerson,  Channing,  Sanborn,  and  Jones)  besides 
two  in  England  (by  Page  and  Salt). 

Up  to  the  time  of  his  death  he  was  unappreciated  away  from 
home,  and  this  was  naturally  also  true  of  him  at  his  place  of  resi- 
dence, since  such  is  the  way  of  the  world.  Even  Sir  Walter  Scott, 
as  we  learn  from  the  lately  published  letters  of  Mrs.  Grant,  was 
not  so  much  of  a  hero  in  Edinburgh  as  elsewhere.  Thoreau 
was  born  in  Concord,  Mass.,  and  died  there,  and  was  therefore 
more  completely  identified  with  that  town  than  any  of  her  other 
celebrities.  Yet  when  I  was  endeavoring,  about  1870,  to  persuade 
his  sister  to  let  me  edit  his  journals,  I  invoked  the  aid  of  Judge 
Hoar,  then  lord  of  the  manor  in  Concord,  who  heard  me  patiently 
through,  and  then  said  :  "  Whereunto  ?  You  have  not  established 
the  preliminary  point.  Why  should  any  one  wish  to  have  Tho- 
reau's  journals  printed?"  Ten  years  later  four  successive  vol- 
umes were  made  out  of  these  journals  by  the  late  H.  G.  O.  Blake, 


340 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


and  it  is  a  (lucHtion  whether  the  whole  may  not  yet  be  published. 
I  hear  from  a  local  |)hotogra[)h  dealer  in  (Jonconl  that  the  demand 
for  I'horeau's  pictures  now  exceeds  that  for  any  other  li>!  al  celeb- 
rity. In  the  last  sale  catalogue  of  autograjjhs  which  I  h.ive  en- 
countereil  I  find  a  letter  from  Thoreau  priced  at  #17.50,  one  from 
Hawthorne  valued  at  the  same,  oiu  from  lx)ngfellow  at  ,^4.50 
only,  and  one  from  Holmes  at  fi^,  each  of  these  luing  guaranteed 
as  an  especially  good  autograph  letter.  Now  the  value  of  such 
memorials  durng  a  man's  life  affords  but  a  slight  test  of  his 
permanent  standing, —  lince  almost  any  man's  autograph  can  be 
obtaineil  for  two  postage  stamps  if  the  request  be  put  with  suffi- 
cient ingenuity,  —  but  when  this  financial  standard  can  be  safely 
applied  more  than  thirty  years  after  a  man's  death,  it  conies 
pretty  near  to  a  permanent  fame. 

It  is  true  that  Thoreau  had  Emerson  as  the  editor  of  four  of 
his  posthumous  volumes ;  but  it  is  also  true  that  he  had  against 
him  the  strong  >'oice  of  Lowell,  whose  following  as  a  critic  was 
far  greater  than  Kmerson's.  It  will  always  remain  a  puzzle  why 
it  was  til  -owell,  who  had  reviewed  Thoreau's  first  book  with 
co'.'.iality  m  the  Afass(ii/iH\e//.(  Quarterly  Revieiv  and  had  said 
to  me  afterward  1,  on  heariii//  him  compared  to  Izaak  Walton, 
"  There  is  room  for  three  or  four  Waltons  in  Thoreau,"  should 
have  written  the  really  harsh  attack  on  the  latter  which  afterwards 
appeared  and  in  which  the  plain  facts  were  unquestionably  per- 
verted. To  transform  Thoreau's  two  brief  years  of  study  and 
observation  at  VValden,  within  two  miles  of  his  mother's  door, 
into  a  lifelong  renunciation  of  his  fellow-men ;  to  <  omplain  of 
him  as  waiving  all  interest  in  public  affairs  when  the  great  crisis 
of  John  Brown's  execution  had  found  him  far  more  awake  to  it  than 
lx)well  was,  —  this  was  only  explainable  by  the  lingering  tradition 
of  that  savage  period  of  criticism,  initiated  by  Foe,  in  whose 
hands  the  thing  became  a  tomahawk.  As  a  matter  of  fact  the 
tomahawk  had  in  this  case  its  immediate  effect ;  and  the  Eng- 
lish editor  and  biographer  of  Thoreau  has  stated  that  Lov/ell's 
criticism  is  to  this  day  the  great  obstat  le  to  the  acceptance  of 
Thoreau's  writings  in  r'ngland.  It  is  to  be  remembered,  how- 
ever, that  Thoreau  was  not  wholly  of  English  but  partly  of  French 
origin,  and  was,  it  might  be  added,  of  a  sort  of  moral-Oriental 


■Vv. 


M  tkw  irtfUi'Oiltoil 


HE.VKY  PAVin    rilOHEAU 


34f 


!  published. 

the  demand 

U>'.  Ill  celeb- 

I  have  en- 

0,  one  from 
w  at  #4.50 

guaranteed 
lue  of  such 
test  of  his 
iph  can  be 
t  with  sufifi- 
an  1k~  safely 

1,  it  conies 

r  of  four  of 
had  against 
a  critic  was 

puzzle  why 
:  book  with 
1(1  had  said 
lak  Walton, 
au,"  should 
1  afterwards 
ionably  per- 

study  and 
ther's  door, 
om plain  of 
great  crisis 
ke  to  it  than 
iig  tradition 
:,  in  whose 
of  fact  the 
d  the  Eng- 
lat  Lov/ell's 
ceptance  of 
bered,  how- 
y  of  French 
iral-Oriental 


or  Puritan- Pagan  temperament.  With  a  literary  feeling  even 
stronger  than  his  feeling  for  nature  —  the  proof  of  this  being  that 
he  could  not,  like  many  men,  enjoy  nattnc  in  silence— -he  put 
his  observat!  MS  always  on  the  level  of  literature,  while  Mr.  Itur- 
roughs,  foi  itistanre,  remains  more  upon  the  level  of  journalism. 
It  is  to  be  doubted  whether  any  a\ithor  uider  such  circum- 
stances would  have  been  rci  cived  favorably  in  Kngland  ,  just  as  the 
poems  of  Kmily  Dickinson,  which  have  shafts  of  profound  scrutiny 
that  often  suggest  'I'horeau,  had  an  extriordinary  success  at  fiome, 
but  fell  hojielcssly  dead  in  Knglanil,  so  that  the  second  volume  was 
never  even  published. 

Lowell  speaks  of  Thoreau  as  "  indolent,"  but  this  is,  as  has  been 
said,  like  speaking  of  the  indolence  of  a  sclf-regislciing  ther- 
mometer I  >well  objects  to  him  as  pursuing  "  a  seclusion  that 
keeps  him  in  the  public  eye,"  whereas  it  was  the  public  eye  which 
sought  him  ;  it  was  almost  as  hard  to  persuade  him  to  lecture 
(crede  ,  \per(o)  as  it  was  to  git  an  audience  for  him  when  he  had 
consented.  He  never  proclaimed  the  intrinsic  superiority  of  the 
wilderness,  but  pointed  out  1h  iter  th.'n  any  one  else  has  done  its 
undesirableness  as  a  residence,  ranking  it  only  as  "a  resource  and 
a  background."  "The  partially  cultivated  country  it  is,"  he  says, 
"  which  has  chiefly  inspired,  and  will  continue  to  inspire,  the 
strains  of  poets  such  as  compose  the  mass  of  any  literature." 
"  What  is  nature,"  he  elsewhere  says,  "  unless  there  is  a  human 
life  passing  within  it?  Many  joys  and  many  sorrows  are  the  lights 
and  shadows  in  which  she  shines  most  beautiful."  This  is  the  real 
and  human  Thoreau,  who  often  whimsically  veiled  him^'lt,  but 
was  plainly  enough  seen  by  any  careful  observer.  That  iie  was 
abrupt  and  repressive  to  bores  and  pedants,  that  he  grudged  his 
time  to  them  and  frequently  withdrew  himself,  was  as  true  of  him 
as  of  Wordsworth  or  Tennyson.  If  they  were  allowed  their  pri- 
vacy, tliough  in  the  heart  of  England,  an  American  who  never  left 
his  own  broad  continent  might  at  least  be  allowed  iiis  priviK  of 
stepping  out  of  doors.  The  Concord  school-children  never  cpiar- 
relled  with  this  habit,  for  he  took  them  out  of  doors  with  him  and 
taught  them  where  the  best  whortleberries  grew. 

His  scholarship,  like  his  observation  of  nature,  was  second  ry 
to  his  function  as  poet  and  writer.     Into  both  he  carried  the  cjc- 


1^ 


343 


.lAf/a/c.hv  rh'osE 


mcnt  uf  wliiiii ;  hut  his  version  of  the  Pivmit/uus  HouuJ  shows 
accuracy,  aiul  his  study  of  l)irils  an<l  plaids  shows  care.  It  must 
be  remembered  tliat  lie  antedated  Uie  modern  sduxil,  classed 
plants  by  the  I,inn;eaii  system,  ami  had  necessarily  Nutlall  for  his 
elementary  manual  of  birds.  Like  all  observers  he  left  whole 
realms  uncultivated  ;  thus  he  pu/.zles  in  his  journal  over  the  great 
brown  pai)er  coc(«)n  of  the  Atfaais  Ctaopia,  which  every  village 
boy  brings  home  from  the  winter  meadows.  If  he  has  not  the 
specialized  habit  of  the  naturalist  of  tt)-day,  neither  has  he  the 
polemic  habit ;  firm  beyond  yielding,  as  to  the  local  facts  of  his 
own  Concord,  he  never  (juarrels  with  those  who  have  made  other 
observations  elsewhere ;  he  is  involved  in  none  of  those  contests 
in  which  paleontologists,  biologists,  astronomers,  have  wasted  so 
much  of  their  lives. 

His  especial  greatness  is  that  he  gives  us  standing  ground  below 
the  surface,  a  basis  not  to  be  washed  away.  A  hundred  sentences 
might  be  quoted  from  him  which  make  common  observers  seem 
superficial  and  professed  philosophers  trivial,  but  which,  if  ac- 
cepted, place  the  realities  of  life  beyond  the  reach  of  danger. 
He  was  a  spiritual  ascetic  to  whom  the  simplicity  of  nature  was 
luxury  enough  ;  and  this,  in  an  age  of  growing  expenditure,  gave 
him  an  imspeakable  value.  To  him  life  itself  was  a  source  of 
joy  so  great  that  it  was  only  weakened  by  diluting  it  with  meaner 
joys.  This  was  the  standard  to  which  he  constantly  held  his  con- 
temporaries. "There  is  nowhere  recorded,"  he  complains,  "a 
simple  and  irrepressible  satisfiiction  with  the  gift  of  life,  any  mem- 
orable praise  of  (lod.  ...  If  the  day  and  the  night  are  such 
that  you  greet  them  with  joy,  and  life  emits  a  fragrance,  like 
flowers  and  sweet-scented  herbs,  —  is  more  elastic,  starry,  and  im- 
mortal, —  that  is  your  success." 

Thomas  Wentworth  Higginson 


".  ^iv^veiaaixaaiM 


J/l-.XhV  DAVID    TIIOKEAU 


343 


\ouiiil  shows 

'«.     It  must 

tool,  cl.isHud 

iitt.dl  for  Ills 

c  If  ft  whole 

L-r  tlie  j^reat 

uvery  village 

h.is  not  the 

has  he  the 

facts  of  his 

made  otiier 

ose  contests 

e  wasted  so 

round  below 
L'd  sentences 
servers  seem 
•hich,  if  ac- 
1  of  danger. 
■  nature  was 
iditure,  gave 
a  source  of 
with  meaner 
leld  his  con- 
mplains,  "  a 
e,  any  mem- 
5ht  are  such 
igrance,  Uke 
irry,  and  im- 

HlGGINSON 


STYLIi   IN   WKITINC; 

A  rKRKF.cni.v  healthy  senten<:e,  it  is  true,  is  extremely  rare.  l<'or 
the  most  part  we  miss  the  hue  and  fragrance  of  the  thought ;  at 
if  we  could  be  satisfied  with  the  dews  of  tiie  morning  or  evening 
without  their  colors,  or  the  heavens  without  their  a/ure.  'I'ho 
most  attractive  sentences  are,  perhaps,  not  the  wisest,  but  the 
surest  and  roundest.  They  are  spoken  firiiily  and  conclusively,  as 
if  the  speaker  had  a  right  to  know  what  he  says,  and  if  not  wise, 
they  have  at  least  been  well  learned.  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  might 
well  be  studied,  if  only  for  the  excellence  of  his  style,  for  he  Ih 
remarkable  in  the  midst  of  so  many  masters.  There  is  a  natural 
emphasis  in  his  style,  like  a  man's  tread,  and  a  breathing  space 
bctwe'^n  the  sentences,  which  the  best  of  modern  writing  does  not 
furnish.  His  chapters  are  like  Knglish  parks,  or  say  rather  like  a 
western  forest,  where  the  larger  growth  keeps  down  the  under- 
wood, and  one  may  ride  on  horseback  through  the  openings.  All 
the  tlistinguished  writers  of  that  period,  possess  a  greater  vigor  and 
naturalness  than  the  more  modern,  —  for  it  is  allowed  to  slander 
our  own  time,  —  and  when  we  read  a  quotation  from  one  of  them 
in  the  midst  of  a  modern  author,  we  seem  to  have  come  suddenly 
\ip(»n  a  greener  ground,  a  greater  depth  and  strength  of  soil.  It 
is  as  if  a  green  bough  were  laid  across  the  page,  and  we  are  re- 
freshed as  by  the  sight  of  fresh  grass  in  midwinter  or  e;irly  spring. 
You  have  constantly  the  warrant  of  life  and  experience  in  what 
you  read.  The  little  that  is  said  is  eked  out  by  implication  of  the 
much  that  was  done.  The  sentences  are  verdurous  and  bloom- 
mg  as  evergreen  and  flowers,  because  they  are  rooted  in  fact  and 
experience,  but  our  false  and  florid  sentences  have  only  the  tints 
of  flowers  without  their  sap  or  roots.  All  men  are  really  most 
attracted  by  the  beauty  of  plain  speech,  and  they  even  write  in  a 
florid  style  in  imitation  of  this.  They  prefer  to  be  misunderstood 
rather  than  to  come  short  of  its  exuV)erance.  Hi^ssein  Efiiendi 
praised  the  epistolary  style,  of  Il)rahim  Paslia  to  the  French  trav- 
eler Botta,  because  of  "the  difficulty  of  understanding  it;  there 
was,"  he  said,  "but  one  person  at  Jidda,  who  was  capable  of 
understanding  and  explaining  the  Pasha's  correspondence."    A 


\\ 


Pi 


344 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


man's  whole  life  is  taxed  for  the  least  tiling  well  done.  It  is  its 
net  result.  Every  sentence  is  the  result  of  a  long  pronation. 
Where  shall  we  look  for  standard  ICnglish,  but  to  the  words  of  a 
standard  man  ?  The  word  which  is  best  said  came  nearest  to  not 
being  spoken  at  all,  "or  it  is  cousin  to  a  deed  which  the  speaker 
could  have  better  dene.  Nny,  almost  it  must  liave  taken  the 
place  of  a  deed  by  some  urgent  necessity,  even  by  some  mis- 
fortune, so  that  the  truest  writer  will  be  some  captive  knight, 
after  all.  And  perhaps  t'ie  fates  had  such  a  design,  when,  having 
stored  Raleigh  so  richly  with  the  substance  of  life  and  experience, 
they  made  him  a  fast  prisoner,  and  compelled  him  to  make  his 
words  his  deeds,  and  transfer  to  his  expression  the  emphasis  and 
sincerity  of  his  action. 

Men  have  a  respect  for  scholarship  and  learning  greatly  out  of 
proportion  to  the  use  they  commonly  serve.  We  are  amused  to 
read  how  Ben  Jonson  engaged  that  the  dull  masks  with  which 
the  royal  family  and  nobility  were  to  be  entertained,  should  be 
"grounded  upon  antiquity  and  solid  learning."  Can  there  be  any 
greater  reproach  than  an  idle  learning?  Learn  to  split  wood,  at 
least.  The  necessity  of  labor  and  conversation  with  many  men 
and  things,  to  the  scholar  is  rarely  well  remembered  ;  steady  labor 
with  the  hands,  which  engrosses  the  attention  also,  is  unquestion- 
ably the  best  method  of  removing  palaver  and  sentimentality  out 
of  one's  style,  both  of  speaking  and  writing.  If  he  has  worked 
hard  from  morning  till  night,  though  he  may  have  grieved  that  he 
could  not  be  watching  the  train  of  his  thoughts  during  that  time, 
yet  the  few  hasty  Hues  which  at  evening  record  his  day's  expe- 
rience will  be  more  musical  and  true  than  his  freest  but  idle  fancy 
could  have  furnished.  Surely  the  writer  is  to  address  a  world  of 
laborers,  and  such  therefore  must  be  his  own  discipline.  He  will 
not  idly  dance  at  his  work  who  has  wood  to  cut  and  cord  before 
night-fall  in  the  short  days  of  winter ;  but  every  stroke  will  be 
husbanded,  and  ring  soberly  through  the  wood  ;  and  so  will  the 
strokes  of  that  scholar's  pen,  wliich  at  evening  record  the  story  of 
the  day,  ring  soberly,  yet  cheerily,  on  the  ear  of  the  reader,  long 
after  the  echoes  of  his  axe  have  died  away.  The  scholar  may  be 
sure  that  he  writes  the  tougher  truth  for  the  calluses  on  his  palms. 
They  give  firmness  to  the  sentence.     Indeed,  the    mind   never 


i  * 


HENRY  DAVID    THOREAU 


345 


ane.  It  is  its 
iig  probation, 
he  words  of  a 
nearest  to  not 
h  the  speaker 
ve  taken  the 
by  some  niis- 
iptive  knight, 
when,  having 
id  experience, 
1  to  make  his 
emphasis  and 

greatly  out  of 
ire  amused  to 
cs  with  which 
ed,  should  be 
1  there  be  any 
split  wood,  at 
ith  many  men 
;  steady  labor 
is  unquestion- 
:imentality  out 
e  has  worked 
rieved  that  he 
ing  that  time, 
is  day's  expe- 
but  idle  fancy 
ess  a  world  of 
line.  He  will 
d  cord  before 
stroke  will  be 
nd  so  will  the 
d  the  story  of 
e  reader,  long 
cholar  may  be 
;  on  his  palms. 
;   mind  never 


makes  a  great  and  successful  effort  without  a  corresponding  energy 
of  the  boily.  We  are  often  struck  by  the  force  and  precision  of 
style  to  which  hard-working  men,  nnpracticed  in  writing,  easily 
attain,  when  required  to  make  the  effort.  As  if  plainness  and 
vigor  and  sincerity,  the  ornaments  of  style,  were  better  learned 
on  the  farm  and  in  the  workshop  than  in  the  schools.  The 
sentences  written  by  such  rude  hands  are  nervous  and  tough,  like 
hardened  thongs,  the  sinews  of  the  deer,  or  the  roots  of  the  pine. 
As  for  the  graces  of  expression,  a  great  thought  is  never  found  in 
a  mean  dress ;  but  though  it  proceed  from  the  lips  of  the  VVoloffs, 
the  nine  Muses  and  the  three  Graces  will  have  conspired  to  clothe 
it  ii;  fit  phrase.  Its  education  has  always  been  liberal,  and  its 
implied  wit  can  endow  a  college.  The  scholar  might  frequently 
emulate  the  propriety  and  emphasis  of  the  farmer's  call  to  his 
team,  and  confess  that  if  that  were  written  it  would  surpass  his 
labored  sentences.  Whose  are  the  truly /rt^«;;r(/ sentences?  From 
the  weak  and  flimsy  periods  of  the  politician  and  literary  man,  we 
are  glad  to  turn  even  to  the  description  of  work,  the  simple  record 
of  the  month's  labor  in  the  farmer's  almanac,  to  restore  our  tone 
and  spirits.  A  sentence  should  read  as  if  its  author,  had  he  held 
a  plough  instead  of  a  pen,  could  have  drawn  a  furrow  deep  and 
straight  to  the  end.  The  scholar  requires  hard  and  serious  labor 
to  give  an  impetus  to  his  thought.  He  will  learn  to  grasp  the  pen 
firmly  so,  and  wield  it  gracefully  and  effectively,  as  an  axe  or  a 
sword.  When  we  consider  the  weak  and  nerveless  periods  of 
some  literary  men,  who  perchance  in  feet  and  inches  come  up  to 
the  standard  of  their  race,  and  are  not  deficient  in  girth  also,  we 
are  amazed  at  the  immense  sacrifice  of  thews  and  sinews.  What ! 
these  proportions,  —  these  bones,  —  and  this  their  work  !  Hands 
which  could  have  felled  an  ox  have  hewed  this  fragile  matter 
which  would  not  have  tasked  a  lady's  fingers  !  Can  this  be  a 
stalwart  man's  work,  who  has  a  marrow  in  his  back  and  a  tendon 
Achilles  in  his  heel?  They  who  set  up  the  blocks  of  Stonehenge 
did  somewliat,  if  they  only  laid  out  their  strength  for  once,  and 
stretched  ihemselves. 

[From  A  Week  en  the  Concord  and  Merrimack  Rivers,  1848,  "Sunday," 
The  text  is  that  of  the  first  edition.] 


m 


ajB.'-'m-»MiMHWIiHMBi&" 


»#fws-'' 


■■M 


d 


346 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


A  villa(;e  festival 


f 


As  I  pass  along  the  streets  of  our  village  of  Concord  on  the 
day  of  c  ir  annual  Cattle  Show,  when  it  usually  happens  that  the 
leaves  of  the  elms  and  buttonwoods  begin  first  to  strew  the  ground 
under  the  breath  of  the  October  wind,  the  lively  spirits  in  their 
sap  seem  to  mount  as  high  as  any  plow-boy's  let  loose  that  day; 
and  they  lead  my  thoughts  away  to  the  rustling  wood",  where  the 
trees  are  preparing  for  their  winter  campaign.  This  autumnal 
festival,  when  m<  n  are  gathered  in  crowds  in  the  streets  as  regu- 
larly and  by  as  natural  a  law  as  the  leaves  cluster  and  rustle  by 
the  wayside,  is  naturally  associated  in  my  mind  with  the  fall  of 
the  year.  The  'ow  of  cattle  in  the  streets  sounds  like  a  hoarse 
symphony  or  running  bass  to  the  rustling  of  the  leaves.  The 
wind  goes  hurrying  down  the  countrv,  gleaning  every  loose  straw 
that  is  left  in  the  fields,  while  every  farmer  lad  too  appears  to 
scud  before  it,  — having  donned  his  best  pea-jacket  and  pepper 
and  salt  waistcoat,  his  unbent  trousers,  outstanding  rigging  of 
duck,  or  kerseymere,  or  corduroy,  and  his  fui.-v  hat  withal,  — 
to  country  fairs  and  cattle  shows,  to  that  Rome  among  the  vil- 
lages where  the  treasures  of  the  year  are  gathered.  All  the  land 
over  they  go  leaping  the  fences  vvilh  their  tough  idle  palms, 
which  have  never  learned  to  hang  by  their  sides,  amid  the  low 
of  calves  and  the  bleating  of  sheep,  —  Amos,  Abner,  Ellnathan, 
Elbridge, — 

"  From  steep  pine-bearing  mountains  to  the  plains." 

I  love  these  sons  of  earth  every  mother's  son  of  them,  with  their 
great  hearty  hearts  rushing  tumultuously  in  herds  '  im  spectacle 
to  spectacle,  as  if  fearful  lest  there  should  not  be  time  between 
sun  and  sun  to  see  them  all,  and  the  sun  does  not  wait  more  than 
in  haying  time. 

"  Wise  Nature's  darlings,  they  live  in  the  world 
Perp'exing  not  themselves  how  it  is  hurled." 

Running  hither  and  thither  with  appetite  for  the  coarse  pastimes 
of  the  day,  now  wi  .1  boisterous  speed  at  the  heels  of  the  inspired 


^■^utMiuada-i;.-,,.:,-..^,,!^^, 


i 


cord  on  the 
ens  that  the 
'  the  ground 
rits  in  their 
se  that  day ; 
",  where  the 
is  autumnal 
;ets  as  regu- 
id  rustle  by 
1  the  fall  of 
ike  a  hoarse 
iaves.  The 
■  loose  straw 
>  appears  to 
and  pepper 
!  rigging  of 
it  withal,  — 
ong  the  vil- 
All  the  land 
idle  palms, 
mid  the  low 
r,  Elnathan, 


1,  with  their 
m  spectacle 
me  between 
t  more  than 


rse  pastimes 
the  inspired 


HENRY  DAVID    THOREAU 


347 


negro  from  whose  larynx  the  melodies  of  all  Congo  and  Guinea 
coast  have  broke  loose  into  our  streets;  now  to  see  the  procession 
of  a  hundred  yoke  of  oxen,  all  as  august  and  grave  as  Osiris,  or 
the  droves  of  neat  cattle  and  milch  cows  as  unspotted  as  Isis  or 
lo.     Such  as  had  no  love  for  Nature 

"  at  all, 
Came  lovers  home  from  this  great  festival." 

They  may  bring  their  fattest  cattle  and  richest  fruits  to  the  fair, 
but  they  are  all  eclipsed  by  the  show  of  men.  These  are  stirring 
autumn  days,  when  men  sweep  by  in  crowds,  amid  the  rustle  of 
leaves,  like  migrating  finches;  this  is  the  true  harvest  of  the  year, 
when  the  air  is  but  the  breath  of  men,  and  the  rustling  of  leaves 
is  as  the  trampling  of  the  crowd.  We  read  nowadays  of  the 
ancient  festivals,  games,  and  processions  of  the  Greeks  and  l-Urus- 
cans  with  a  little  incredulity,  oral  least  with  little  sympathy;  but 
how  natural  and  irrepressible  in  (.very  people  is  some  hearty  an«l 
palpable  greeting  of  Nature.  The  Corybantes,  the  Bacchantes, 
the  rude  primitive  tragedians  with  their  procession  am'  goat- 
song,  and  the  whole  paraphernalia  of  the  Panathentea,  which 
appear  so  antiquated  and  peculiar,  have  their  parallel  now.  The 
husbandman  is  always  a  better  Greek  than  the  scholar  is  preparcvl 
to  appreciate,  and  the  old  custom  still  survives,  while  antiqua- 
rians and  scholars  grow  gray  in  commemorating  it.  The  farmers 
crowd  to  the  fair  to-day  in  obedience  to  the  same  ancient  law, 
which  Solon  or  Lycurgus  did  not  enact,  as  naturally  as  bees  swarm 
and  follow  their  queen. 

It  is  worth  the  while  to  see  the  country's  people,  how  they  pour 
into  the  town,  the  sober  farmer  folk,  now  all  agog,  their  very  shirt 
and  coat  collars  pointing  forward,  —  collars  so  broad  as  if  (hey 
had  put  their  shirts  on  wrong  end  upward,  for  the  fashions  always 
tend  to  superfluity, —and  with  an  unusual  springiness  in  their 
gait,  jabbering  earnestly  to  one  another.  The  more  supple  vaga- 
bond, too,  is  sure  to  appear  on  the  least  rumor  of  such  a  gather- 
ing, and  the  next  day  to  disappear,  and  go  into  his  hole  like  the 
seventeen-year  locust,  in  an  ever  shabby  coat,  though  finer  than 
the  farmer's  best,  yet  never  dressed;  come  to  see  the  sport,  and 
have  a  hawd  in  what  is  going, —  to  know  "what's  the  row,"  if 


1^ 


348 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


there  is  any;  to  be  where  some  men  are  drunk,  some  horses  race, 
some  cockerels  figlit:  anxious  to  be  shaking  projjs  under  a  table, 
and  above  all  to  see  the  "ytriped  i)ig."  He  certainly  is  the 
cleature  of  the  occasion.  He  empties  both  his  pockets  and  his 
character  into  tl\r  ntream,  and  swims  in  such  a  day.  He  dearly 
lo\;es  the  social  slush.  There  is  no  reserve  of  soberness  in  him. 
I  love  to  see  the  herd  of  men  feeding  heartily  on  coarse  and 
suciulett^  pl<;as\irt»,  ii»  cattle  on  the  husks  and  stalks  of  vege- 
tables. 'Vhough  there  are  many  cii)okeil  and  crabbed  specimens 
of  humanity  among  tin  m,  run  all  to  thorn  and  rind,  and  crowded 
out  of  shape  by  adverse  circumstances,  like  the  third  chestnut  in 
the  burr,  so  that  you  wonder  ^o  see  some  heads  wear  a  whole 
hat,  yet  fear  not  that  the  ^-ace  luH  fail  or  waver  in  them;  like 
the  crabs  which  grow  in  hedges,  they  furnish  the  stocks  of  sweet 
and  thrifty  fruits  still.  Thus  is  nature  recruited  from  age  to  age, 
while  the  fair  and  palalaltlf  varieties  die  out,  and  have  their 
period.  This  is  that  mankind.  How  cheap  must  be  the  mate- 
rial of  which  so  \\\\\Vj  men  are  mavle. 

[From  A  \V(ek  on  the  Com  aid,  rli .,  "  Friday."    The  text  is  that  of  the  first 
edition.] 


VfeKSONAL  AIMS 

I  went  to  the  woods  because  I  wished  to  live  deliberately,  to 
front  only  the  essenti.d  facts  of  life,  and  see  if  I  could  not  learn 
what  it  had  to  teach,  and  not,  when  I  came  to  die,  discover  that 
I  had  not  lived.  I  did  not  wish  to  live  what  was  not  life,  living 
is  so  dear;  nor  did  I  wish  to  practise  resignation,  unless  it  was 
quite  necessais.  1  wanted  to  live  deep  and  suck  out  all  the  mar- 
row of  life,  to  live  so  sturdily  and  Spartan-like  as  to  put  to  rout 
all  that  was  not  life,  to  cut  a  broad  swath  and  shave  close,  to 
drive  life  into  a  corner,  and  reduce  it  to  its  lowest  terms,  and, 
ii  It  proved  to  be  mean,  why  then  to  get  the  whole  and  genuine 
meanness  of  it,  and  publish  its  meanness  to  the  world;  or  if  it 
were  sublime,  to  know  it  by  experience,  and  be  able  to  give  a 
true  account  of  it  in  my  next  excursion.  For  most  men,  it  ap- 
pears to  me,  are  in  a  strange  uncertainty  about  it,  whether  it  is 


lorses  race, 
ler  a  table, 
inly  is  the 
ets  and  his 

He  dearly 
;ss  in  him. 
coarse  and 
cs  of  vege- 

speciniens 
id  crowded 
chestnut  in 
ar  a  whole 
them;  like 
cs  of  sweet 
age  to  age, 
have  their 
:  the  niate- 

at  of  the  first 


jerately,  to 
d  not  learn 
scover  that 
life,  living 
iless  it  was 
.11  the  mar- 
put  to  rout 
e  close,  to 
erms,  and, 
lid  genuine 
d;  or  if  it 
;  to  give  a 
nen,  it  ap- 
lether  it  is 


HENKY  DAVID    TUOKEAU 


349 


of  the  devil  or  of  God,  and  have  somewhat  hastily  concluded  that 
it  is  the  chief  end  of  man  here  to  "glorify  God  and  enjoy  him 
forever." 

Still  we  live  meanly,  like  ants;  though  the  fable  tells  us  that 
we  were  long  ago  changed  into  men;  like  pygmies  v     fight  with 
cranes;  it  is  error  upon  error,  and  clout  upon  clout,  and  our  best 
virtue  has  for  its  occasion  a  superfluous  and  evitable  wretched- 
ness.    Our  life  is  frittered  away  by  detail.     An  honest  man  has 
hardly  need  to  count  more  than  his  ten  fingers,  or  in  extreme 
cases  he  may  add  his  ten  toes,  and  lump  the  rest.     Simplicity, 
simplicity,  simplicity!     I  say,  let  your  affairs  be  as  two  or  three, 
and  not  a  hundred  or  a  thousand;  instead  of  a  million  count  half 
a  dozen,  and  keep  your  accounts  on  your  thumb  nail.     In  the 
midst  of  this  chopping  sea  of  civilized  life,  such  are  the  clouds 
and  storms  and  quicksands  and   thousand-and-one  items  to  be 
allowed  for,  that  a  man  has  to  live,  if  he  would  not  founder  and 
go  to  the  bottom  and  not  make  his  port  at  all,  by  dead  reckoning, 
and  he  must  be  a  great  calculator  indeed  who  succeeds.     Sim- 
plify, simplify.     Instead  of  three  meals  a  day,  if  it  be  necessary 
eat  but  one;  instead  of  a  hundred  dishes,  five;  and  reduce  other 
things  in  proportion.     Our  life  is  like  a  (ierman  Confederacy, 
made  up  of  petty  states,  with  its  boundary  forever  fluctuating,  so 
that  even  a  German  cannot  tell  you  how  it  is  bounded  at  any 
moment.      The  nation  il  elf,  with  all  its  so-called  internal  im- 
provements, which  by  the  way  are  all  extxrnal  and  superficial,  is 
just  such  an  unwieldy  and  overgrown  establishment,  cluttered 
with  furniture  and  tripped  up  by  its  own  traps,  ruined  by  luxury 
and  heedless  expense,  by  want  of  calculation  and  a  worthy  aim, 
as  the  million  households  in  the  land;  and  the  only  cure  for  it  as 
for  them  is  in  a  rigid  economy,  a  stern  and  more  than  Spartan 
simplicity  of  life  and  elevation  of  purpose.     It  lives  too  fast. 
Men  think  that  it  is  essential  that  the  Nation  have  commerce, 
and  export  ice,  and   talk  through  a  telegraph,   and  ride  thirty 
miles  an  hour,  without  a  doubt,  whether  they  do  or  not;    but 
whether  we  should  live  like  baboons  or  like  men,  is  a  little  uncer- 
tain.    If  we  do  not  get  out  sleepers,  and  forge  rails,  and  devote 
days  and  nights  to  the  work,  but  go  to  tinkering  upon  our  lives  to 
improve  them,  who  will  build  railroads?     And  if  railroads  are 


350 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


not  built,  how  shall  we  get  to  heaven  in  season?  Hut  if  we  stay 
at  home  and  mind  our  business,  who  will  want  railroads?  We 
do  not  ride  on  the  railroad;  it  rides  upon  us.  Did  you  ever 
think  what  those  sleepers  are  that  underlie  the  railroad?  Each 
one  is  a  man,  an  Irishman,  or  a  Yankee  man.  The  rails  are  laid 
on  them,  and  they  are  covered  with  sand,  and  the  cars  run 
smoothly  over  them.  'I'hey  are  sound  sleepers,  I  assure  you. 
And  every  few  years  a  new  lot  is  laid  down  and  run  over;  so 
that,  if  some  have  the  pleasure  of  riding  on  a  rail,  others  have 
the  misfortune  to  be  ridden  upon.  .And  when  they  run  over  a 
mun  that  is  walking  in  his  sleep,  a  supernumerary  sleeper  in  the 
wrong  position,  and  wake  him  up,  they  suddenly  stop  the  cars, 
and  make  a  hue  and  cry  about  it,  as  if  this  were  an  exception. 
I  am  glad  to  know  that  it  takes  a  gang  of  men  for  every  five  miles 
to  keep  the  sleepers  down  and  level  in  their  beds  as  it  is,  for 
this  is  a  sign  that  they  may  sometime  get  up  again. 

Why  should  we  live  with  such  hurry  and  waste  of  life?  We 
are  determined  to  be  starved  before  we  are  hungry.  Men  say 
that  a  stitch  in  time  saves  nine,  and  so  they  take  a  thousand 
stitches  to-day  to  save  nine  to-morrow.  As  for  icork,  we  haven't 
any  of  any  consequence.  We  have  the  Saint  Vitus'  dance,  and 
cannot  possibly  keep  our  hca  is  still.  If  I  should  only  give  a 
few  pulls  at  the  parish  bell-rope,  as  for  a  fire,  that  is,  without 
setting  the  bell,  there  is  hardly  a  man  on  his  farm  in  the  outskirts 
of  Concord,  notwithstanding  that  press  of  engagements  which  was 
his  excuse  so  many  times  this  morning,  nor  a  boy,  nor  a  woman, 
I  might  almost  say,  but  would  forsake  all  and  follow  that  sound, 
not  mainly  to  save  ])roperty  from  the  flames,  but,  if  we  will  con- 
fess the  truth,  much  more  to  see  it  burn,  since  burn  it  must, 
and  we,  be  it  known,  did  not  set  it  on  fire, —  or  to  see  it  put  out, 
and  have  a  hand  in  it,  if  that  is  done  as  handsomely;  yes,  e\en 
if  it  were  the  parish  church  itself.  Hardly  a  man  takes  a  half 
hour's  nap  after  dinner,  but  wlien  he  wak.^s  he  holds  up  his  head 
and  asks,  "What's  the  news?"  as  if  the  rest  of  mankind  had 
stood  his  sentinels.  Some  give  directions  to  be  waked  every  half 
hour,  doubtless  for  no  other  purpose;  and  then,  to  pay  for  it, 
they  tell  what  they  have  dreamed.  After  a  night's  sleep  the  news 
is  as  indispensable  as  the  breakfast.     "  Pray  tell  me  anything  new 


tMM 


:  if  we  stay 
)ads  ?  We 
1  you  ever 
id  ?  Each 
ils  are  laid 
;  cars  run 
issure  you. 
n  over;  so 
jthers  have 
run  over  a 
eper  in  the 
[)  the  cars, 
exception. 
i  five  miles 
s  it  is,  for 

life?  We 
Men  say 
1  thousand 
we  haven't 
dance,  and 
inly  give  a 
is,  without 
le  outskirts 
1  which  was 
•  a  woman, 
;hat  sound, 
e  will  con- 
n  it  must, 
it  put  out, 
;  yes,  even 
ikes  a  half 
ip  his  head 
nkind  had 
I  every  half 
pay  for  it, 
p  the  news 
ything  new 


HENRY  DAVID    THOKEAU 


351 


that  has  happened  to  a  man  anywhere  on  this  globe,"  —  and  he 
reads  it  over  his  coffee  and  rolls,  that  a  man  has  had  his  eyes 
gouged  out  this  morning  on  the  Wachito  River;  never  dreaming 
the  while  that  he  lives  in  the  dark  unfathomed  mammoth  cave  of 
this  world,  and  has  but  the  rudiment  of  an  eye  himself. 

[From  WalJen;  or.  Life  in  the  IVoods,  1854,  chapter  2.    The  text  of  this 
and  succeeding  selections  is  that  of  the  iirst  edition.] 


SOUNDS   AT  EVENING 

Now  that  the  cars  are  gone  by  and  all  the  restless  world  with 
them,  and  the  fishes  in  the  pond  no  longer  feel  their  rumbling,  I 
am  more  alone  than  ever.  For  the  rest  of  the  long  afternoon, 
perhaps,  my  meditations  are  interrupted  only  by  the  faint  rattle 
of  a  carriage  or  team  along  the  ».      ^nt  highway. 

Sometimes,  on  Sundays,  I  heard  the  bells,  the  Lincoln,  Acton, 
Bedford,  or  Concord  bell,  when  the  wind  was  favorable,  a  faint, 
sweet,  and,  as  it  were,  natural  melody,  worth  importing  into  the 
wilderness.  At  a  sufficient  distance  over  the  woods  this  sound 
acquires  a  certain  vibratory  hum,  as  if  the  pine  needles  in  the 
horizon  were  the  strings  of  a  harp  which  it  swept.  All  sound 
heard  at  the  greatest  possible  distance  produce;  one  and  the 
same  effect,  a  vibration  of  the  universal  lyre,  just  as  the  inter- 
vening atmosphere  makes  a  distant  ridge  of  earth  interesting  to 
our  eyes  by  the  azure  tint  it  imparts  to  it.  There  came  to  me  in 
this  case  a  melody  which  the  air  had  strained,  and  which  had 
conversed  with  every  leaf  and  needle  of  the  wood,  that  portion 
of  the  sound  which  the  elements  had  taken  up  and  modulated 
and  echoed  from  vale  to  vale.  The  echo  is,  to  some  extent,  an 
origind  sound,  and  therein  is  the  magic  and  charm  of  it.  It  is 
not  merely  a  repetition  of  what  was  worth  repeating  in  the  bell, 
but  partly  the  voice  of  the  wood;  the  same  trivial  words  and 
note:,  sung  by  a  wood-nymph. 

At  evening,  the  distant  lowing  of  some  cow  in  the  horizon 
beyond  the  woods  sounded  sweet  and  melodious,  and  at  first  I 
would  mistake  it  fur  the  voices  of  certain  minstrels  by  whom  I 


352 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


was  sometimes  serenaded,  who  might  be  straying  over  hill  and 
dale;  but  soon  1  was  not  unpleasantly  disappointed  when  it  was 
prolonged  into  the  cheap  and  natural  music  of  the  cow.  I  do 
not  mean  to  be  satirical,  but  to  express  my  ajjpreciation  of  those 
youths'  singing,  when  I  state  that  I  perceived  clearly  that  it  was 
akin  to  the  music  of  the  cow,  and  they  were  at  length  one  articu- 
lation of  Nature. 

Regularly  at  half  past  seven,  in  one  part  of  the  summer,  after 
the  evening  train  had  gone  by,  the  whippoorwills  chanted  their 
vespers  for  half  an  hour,  sitting  on  a  stump  by  my  door,  or  upon 
the  ridge-pole  of  the  house.  They  would  begin  to  sing  almost 
with  as  much  precision  as  a  clock,  within  five  minutes  of  a  par- 
ticular time,  referred  to  the  setting  of  the  sun,  every  evening.  I 
had  a  rare  opportunity  to  become  acquainted  with  their  habits. 
Sometimes  I  heard  four  or  five  at  once  in  different  parts  of  the 
wood,  by  accident  one  a  bar  behind  another,  and  so  near  me  that 
I  distinguished  not  only  the  cluck  after  each  note,  but  often  that 
singular  buzzing  sound  like  a  fly  in  a  spider's  web,  only  propor- 
tionally louder.  Sometimes  one  would  circle  round  and  round 
me  in  the  woods  a  few  feet  distant  as  it  tethered  by  a  string, 
when  probably  I  was  near  its  eggs.  They  sang  at  intervals 
throughout  the  night,  and  were  again  as  musical  as  ever  just 
before  and  about  dawn. 

When  other  birds  are  still  the  screech  owls  take  up  the  strain, 
like  mourning  wcmen  their  ancient  u-lu-lu.  Their  dismal  scream 
is  truly  Ben  Jonsonian.  Wise  midnight  hags!  It  is  no  honest 
and  blunt  tu-whit  tu-who  of  the  poets,  but,  without  jesting,  a 
most  solemn  graveyard  ditty,  the  mutual  consolations  of  suicide 
lovers  remembering  the  pangs  and  the  delights  of  supernal  love 
in  the  infernal  groves.  Yet  I  love  to  hear  their  wailing,  their 
doleful  responses,  trilled  along  the  woodside;  reminding  me 
sometimes  of  music  and  singing  birds;  as  if  it  were  the  dark  and 
tearful  side  of  music,  the  regrets  and  sighs  that  would  fain  be 
sung.  They  are  the  spirits,  the  low  sjiirits  and  melancholy  fore- 
bodings, of  fallen  souls  that  once  in  human  shape  night-walked 
the  earth  and  did  the  deeds  of  darkness,  now  expiating  their  sins 
with  their  wailing  hymns  or  threnodies  in  the  scenery  of  their 
transgressions.     They  give  me  a  new  sense  of  the  variety  and  ca- 


■»«»i*«ite**>**<*«*.'»^»*» 


i'fe»irf>i^'*'^^"  ■^■■wafcdiga«'-Aft<W.-<  A^-'^f^rtW^ 


er  hill  and 
hen  it  was 
:ow.  I  do 
)n  of  those 
that  it  wan 
one  articu- 

iimer,  after 
anted  their 
Dr,  or  upon 
ling  almost 
s  of  a  par- 
!vening.  I 
leir  habits, 
parts  of  the 
ear  me  that 
t  often  that 
nly  propor- 
and  round 
jy  a  string, 
it  intervals 
IS  ever  just 

)  the  strain, 
smal  scream 
s  no  honest 
t  jesting,  a 
s  of  suicide 
ipernal  love 
ailing,  their 
iiinding  me 
he  dark  and 
)uld  fain  be 
ncholy  fore- 
light-walked 
ig  their  sins 
ery  of  their 
iety  and  ca- 


HENRY  DAVID    THOREAU 


353 


])acity  of  that  :iature  which  is  our  common  dwelling.  Oh-o-o  o-o 
that  I  never  had  been  hot-r-r-r-nl  sighs  one  on  this  side  of  the 
pond,  and  circles  with  the  restlessness  of  despair  to  some  new 
perch  on  the  gray  oaks.  Then  —  that  I  never  had  been  bor-r-r-r-n! 
echoes  another  on  the  farther  side  with  tremulous  sincerity,  and 
—  bor-r-r-r-n!  comes  faintly  from  far  in  the  Lincoln  woods. 

[Krom  Waldtn,  chapter  4,  "Sounds."] 


SOLITUDE 

This  is  a  delicious  evening,  when  the  whole  body  is  one  sense, 
and  imbibes  delight  through  every  pore.  I  go  and  (  onie  with  a 
strange  liberty  in  Nature,  a  part  of  herself.  As  I  walk  along  the 
stony  shore  of  the  pond  in  my  shirt  sleeves,  though  it  is  cool  as 
well  as  cloudy  and  windy,  and  I  see  nothing  special  to  attract 
me,  all  the  elements  are  unusually  congenial  to  me.  The  bull- 
frogs trump  to  usher  in  the  night,  and  the  note  of  the  whippoor- 
will  is  borne  on  the  rippling  wind  from  over  the  water.  Sympatliy 
with  the  fluttering  alder  and  poplar  leaves  almost  takes  away  my 
breath;  yet,  like  the  lake,  my  serenity  is  rippled  but  not  ruffled. 
These  small  waves  raised  by  the  evening  wind  are  as  remote  from 
storm  as  the  smooth  reflecting  surface.  Though  it  is  now  dark, 
the  wind  still  blows  and  roars  in  the  wood,  the  waves  still  dash, 
and  some  creatures  lull  the  rest  with  their  notes.  The  repose  is 
never  complete.  The  wildest  animals  do  not  repose,  but  seek 
their  prey  now;  the  fox,  and  skunk,  and  rabbit,  now  roam  the 
fields  and  woods  without  fear.  They  are  Nature's  watchmen,  — 
links  which  connect  the  days  of  animated  lik. 

When  I  return  to  my  housel  find  that  vi,.itors  ha  'e  been  there 
and  left  their  cards,  either  a  bunch  of  flowers,  or  a  wreath  of 
evergreen,  or  a  name  in  pencil  on  a  yellow  walnut  leaf  or  a  chip. 
They  who  come  rarely  to  the  woods  take  some  little  piece  of  the 
forest  into  their  hands  to  play  with  by  the  way,  which  they  leave, 
either  intentionally  or  accidentally.  One  has  pet  led  a  willow 
wand,  woven  it  into  a  ring,  and  dropped  it  on  my  table.  I  could 
always  tell  if  visitors  had  called  in  my  absence,  either  by  the 
bended  twigs  or  grass,  or  the  print  of  their  shoes,  and  generally 


■■i 


354 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


of  what  sex  or  age  or  (inality  they  were  by  some  slight  trace  left, 
as  a  flower  dropped,  or  a  bunch  of  grass  plucked  and  tlirown 
away,  even  as  far  off  as  the  railroad,  half  a  mile  dist;iat,  or  by 
the  lingering  odor  of  a  cigar  or  pipe.  Nay,  I  was  frequently 
notified  of  the  passage  of  a  traveller  along  the  highway  sixty 
rod^;  off  by  the  scent  of  his  pipe. 

ihtre  is  commonly  sufficient  space  about  us.  Our  horizon  is 
never  (piite  at  our  elbows.  The  thick  wood  is  not  just  at  our 
door,  nor  the  pond,  but  somewhat  is  always  clearing,  familiar 
and  worn  by  us,  appropriated  and  fenced  in  some  way,  and  re- 
claimed from  Nature.  For  what  reason  have  I  this  vast  range 
and  circuit,  some  square  miles  of  unfrequented  forest,  for  my 
privacy,  abandoned  to  me  by  men?  My  nearest  neiglibor  is  a 
mile  distant,  and  no  house  is  visible  from  any  place  but  the  hill- 
tops within  half  a  mile  of  my  own.  I  have  my  horizon  bounded 
by  woods  all  to  myself;  a  distant  view  of  the  railroad  where  it 
touches  the  pond  on  the  one  hand,  and  of  the  fence  which  skirts 
the  woodland  road  on  the  other.  But  for  the  most  part  it  is  as 
solitary  where  I  live  as  on  the  prairies.  It  is  as  much  Asia  or 
Africa  as  New  England.  I  have,  as  it  were,  my  own  sun  and 
moon  and  stars,  and  a  little  world  all  to  myself.  At  night  there 
was  never  a  traveller  passed  my  house,  ot  knocked  at  my  door, 
more  than  if  I  were  the  first  or  last  ma.i;  unless  it  were  in  the 
spring,  when  at  long  intervals  some  came  from  the  village  to  fish 
for  pouts,  —  they  plainly  fished  much  more  in  the  VValden  Pond 
of  their  own  natures,  and  baited  their  hooks  with  darkness,— but 
they  soon  retreated,  usually  with  light  baskets,  and  left  "the 
world  to  darkness  and  to  me,"  and  the  black  kernel  of  the  night 
was  never  profaned  by  any  human  neighborhood.  I  believe  that 
men  are  generally  still  a  little  afraid  of  the  dark,  though  the 
witches  are  all  hung,  and  Christianity  and  candles  have  been 
introduced. 

Yet  I  experienced  sometimes  that  the  most  sweet  and  tender, 
the  most  innocent  and  encouraging  society  may  be  found  in  any 
natural  object,  even  for  the  poor  misanthrope  and  most  melan- 
choly man.  There  can  be  no  very  black  melancholy  to  him  who 
lives  in  the  midst  of  Nature  and  has  his  senses  still.  There  was 
never  yet  such  a  storm  but  it  was  /Eolian  music  to  a  healthy  and 


'Si,. 


r"l*«WWr^>'«;rftjs.-i<M»'i»'3*t*~Sfc«.v>-*»ti***r' 


1/ENKY  DAVID    TIIORRAU 


355 


trace  l«ft, 
ml  tlirown 
t;int,  or  by 

frequently 
hway  sixty 

horizon  is 
just  at  our 
g,  familiar 
ay,  and  re- 
vast  range 
:st,  for  my 
ighbor  is  a 
ut  the  hill- 
)n  bounded 
id  where  it 
t-hich  skirts 
[)art  it  is  as 
jch  Asia  or 
>'n  sun  and 
night  there 
it  my  door, 
were  in  the 
llage  to  fish 
alden  Pond 
:ness, — but 
1  left  "the 
af  the  night 
believe  that 
though  the 
have  been 

and  tender, 
3und  in  any 
nost  melan- 
to  hirn  who 
There  was 
healthy  and 


innocent  ear.  Nothing  can  rightly  compel  a  siniiile  and  brave 
man  to  a  vulgar  sadness.  While  I  enjoy  the  friendshij)  of  the 
seasons  I  trust  that  nothing  can  make  life  a  burden  to  me.  The 
gentle  rain  which  waters  my  bean>  and  kefi)s  me  in  the  house  to- 
day is  not  drear  and  melancholy,  but  good  for  me  too.  Though 
it  prevents  my  hoeing  them,  it  is  of  far  more  worth  than  my 
hoeing.  If  it  should  continue  so  long  as  to  cause  the  seeds  to 
rot  in  the  ground  and  destroy  the  potatoes  in  the  lowlands,  it 
would  '.till  be  good  for  the  grass  on  the  uplands,  and,  being  good 
for  the  grass,  it  would  be  good  for  me.  Sometimes,  when  1  com- 
pare myself  with  other  men,  it  seems  as  if  I  were  more  favored 
by  the  gods  than  they,  beyond  any  deserts  that  I  am  conscious 
of;  as  if  I  had  a  warrant  ami  surety  at  their  hands  which  my  fel- 
lows have  not,  and  were  especially  guided  and  guarded.  I  do 
not  flatter  myself,  but  if  it  be  possible  they  flatter  me.  I  have 
never  felt  lonesome,  or  in  the  least  oppressed  by  a  sense  of  soli- 
tude, but  once,  and  that  was  a  few  weeks  after  1  came  to  the 
woods,  when,  for  an  hour,  I  doubted  if  the  near  neighborhood  of 
man  was  not  essential  to  a  serene  and  healthy  life.  To  be  alone 
was  something  unpleasant.  But  I  was  at  the  same  time  conscious 
of  a  slight  insanity  in  my  mood,  and  seemed  to  foresee  my  re- 
covery. In  the  midst  of  a  gentle  rain  while  these  thoughts  pre- 
vailed, I  was  suddenly  sensible  of  such  sweet  and  beneficent 
society  in  Nature,  in  the  very  pattering  of  the  drops,  and  in 
every  sound  and  sight  around  my  house,  an  infinite  and  unac- 
countable friendliness  all  at  once  like  an  atmosphere  sustaining 
me,  as  made  the  fancied  advantages  of  human  neighborhood 
insignificant,  and  I  have  never  thought  of  them  since.  Every 
little  pine  needle  expanded  and  swelled  with  sympathy  and  be- 
friended me.  I  was  so  distinctly  made  aware  of  the  presence  of 
something  kindred  to  me,  even  in  scenes  which  we  are  accus- 
tomed to  call  wild  and  dreary,  and  also  thai  the  nearest  of  blood 
to  me  and  humanest  was  not  a  person  nor  a  villager,  that  I 
thought  no  place  could  ever  be  strange  to  me  again. 

[From  VValden,  chapter  5,  "  Solitude."] 


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356 


AMEKlCAiV  PROSE 


IMMORTALITY 


How  long  shall  we  sit  in  our  porticoes  practising  idle  and  musty 
virtues,  which  any  work  would  make  impertinent?     As  if  one 
were  to  begin  the  day  with  long-suffering,  and  hire  a  man  to  hoe 
his  potatoes;  and  in  the  afternoon  go  forth  to  practise  Christian 
meekness  and  charity  with  goodness  aforethought!     Consider  the 
China  pride  and  stagnant  self-complacency  of  mankind.     This 
generation  inclines  a  lutle  to  congratulate  itself  on  being  the  last 
of  an  illustrious  line;  and  in  Boston  and  London  and  Paris  and 
Rome,  thinking  of  its  long  descent,  it  speaks  of  its  progress  in 
art  and  science  and  literature  with  satisfaction.     There  are  the 
Records  of  the  Philosophical  Societies,  and  the  public  Tulogies 
of  Great  Men !     It  is  the  good  Adam  contemplating  his  own  vir- 
tue.    "Yes,  we  have  done  great  deeds,  and  sung  divine  songs, 
which  shall  never  die,"  — that  is,  as  long  as  we  can  remember 
them.     The  learned  societies  and  great  men  of  Assyria,  —where 
are  they?     What  youthful  philosophers  and  experimentalists  we 
are !     There  is  not  one  of  my  readers  who  has  yet  lived  a  whole 
human  life.     'I'hese  may  be  but  the  spring  months  in  the  life  of 
the  race.     If  we  have  had  the  seven  years'  itch,  we  have  not  seen 
the  seventeen-year  locust  yet  in  Concord.     We  are  acquainted 
with  a  mere  pellicle  of  the  globe  on  which  we  live.     Most  have 
not  delved  six  feet  beneath  the  surface,  nor  leaped  as  many  above  / 
it.     We  know  not  where  we  are.     Beside,  we  are  sound  asleep 
nearly  half  our  time.     Yet  we  esteem  ourselves  wise,  and  have  an 
established  order  on  the  surface.    Truly,  we  are  deep  thinkers,  we 
are  ambitious  spirits!     As  I  stand  over  the  insect  crawling  amid 
the  pine  needles  on  the  forest  floor,  and  endeavoring  to  conceal 
itself  from  my  sight,  and  ask  myself  why  it  will  cherish  those 
humble  thoughts,  and  hide  its  head  from  me  who  might,  perhaps, 
be  its  benefactor,  and  impart  to  its  race  some  cheering  informa- 
tio?;,  I  am  reminded  of  the  greater  Benefactor  and  Intelligence  , 
ihat  stands  over  me  the  human  insect. 

There  is  an  incessant  influx  of  novelty  into  the  world,  and 
yet  we  tolerate  incredible  dulness.  I  need  only  suggest  what 
kind  of  sermons  are  still  listened  to  in  the  most  enlightened 


"*-*».?,--5>*-.,^- 


',^'a>jv-«jV-'fTwt^c^*hsiS'f^--*^u*v.L-'.Tt;:sp«j'<f 


■  :?<WIJm>ll»!»Uiilll<iafeil<i^iM<Bfe>ii^^ 


W^ 


and  musty 
As  if  one 
lan  to  hoe 

Christian 
insider  the 
nd.  This 
ng  the  last 

Paris  and 
progress  in 
?re  are  the 
:  r,ulogies 
is  own  vir- 
ine  songs, 

remember 
I,  — where 
ntalists  we 
ed  a  whole 

the  life  of 
'c  not  seen 
acquainted 
Most  have 
nany  above 
und  asleep 
nd  have  an 
linkers,  we 
vling  amid 

to  conceal 
srish  those 
t,  perhaps, 
ig  informa- 
ntelligence  , 

world,  and 
iggest  what 
!nlightened 


/ 


HEI^h'Y  DAVID   IHOREAV 

countries.  There  are  such  words  as  joy  and  sorrow,  but  they  are 
only  the  burden  of  a  psalm,  snug  with  a  nasal  twang,  while  we 
believe  in  the  ordinary  and  mean.  We  think  that  we  can  change 
our  clothes  only.  It  is  said  that  the  British  Empire  is  very  large 
and  respectable,  antl  tliat  the  United  States  are  a  first-rate  power. 
We  do  not  believe  that  a  tide  rises  and  falls  behind  every  man 
which  can  float  the  British  Empire  like  a  chip,  if  he  should  ever 
harbor  it  in  his  mind.  Who  knows  what  sort  of  seventeen-year 
locust  will  next  come  out  of  the  ground?  The  government  of 
the  world  I  Jive  in  was  not  framed,  like  that  of  Britain,  in  after- 
dinner  conversations  over  the  wine. 

The  life  in  us  is  like  the  water  in  the  river.  It  may  rise  this 
year  higher  than  man  has  ever  known  it,  and  flood  the  parched 
uplandsj  even  this  ma)»»be  the^^ntfvd  year,  which  will  d.own 
out  all  our  muskrats.  It  was  noWnways  dry  lanil  where  we  dwell. 
T  see  far  inland  the  banks  which  the  stream  anciently  washed, 
before  science  began  to  record  its  freshets.  Every  one  has 
heard  the  story  which  has  gone  the  rounds  of  New  England,  of 
a  strong  and  beautiful  bug  which  came  out  of  the  dry  leaf  of  an 
old  table  of  apple-tree  wood,  which  had  stood  in  a  farmer's 
kitchen  for  sixtj  years,  first  in  Connecticut,  and  afterward  in 
Massachusetts,  —  from  an  egg  deposited  in  the  living  tree  many 
years  earlier  still,  as  appeared  by  counting  the  annual  layers 
beyond  it;  which  was  heard  gnawing  oi't  for  several  weeks, 
hatched  perchance  by  the  heat  of  an  urn.  Who  does  not  feel  his 
faith  in  a  resurrection  and  immortality  strengthened  by  hearing 
of  thiy?  Who  knows  what  beautiful  and  winged  life,  whose  egg 
has  been  buried  for  ages  under  many  concentric  layers  of  wooden- 
ness  in  the  dead  dry  life  of  society,  deposited  at  first  in  the 
alburnum  of  the  green  and  living  tree,  which  has  been  gradually 
converted  into  the  semblance  of  Us  well-seasoned  tomb,  — heard 
perchance  gnawing  out  now  for  years  by  the  astonished  family  of 
man,  as  they  sat  round  the  festive  board,  —  may  unexpectedly 
come  forth  from  amidst  society's  most  trivial  rnd  handselled 
furniture,  to  enjoy  its  perfect  summer  life  at  last! 

[From  Walden,  "Conclusion."] 


P^ftS^w6sS)^2^^JS^^^^'-£ 


I 

(I 


I 


I 


-k-^ 


JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL 


[James  Russell  I.owoU  was  Imrn  in  the  Lowell  homestead,  F.lmwooil,  in 
Camliridfje,  Mass.,  I'l'l).  2>,  iSkj,  and  <lied  there  Au^-  12,  1891.  lie  eame 
from  a  distinguished  New  ICnglaml  family,  lie  was  educated  at  Harvard 
College,  where  he  graduated  in  l8j8.  On  leaving  college  he  began  the  study  .-^ 
of  law  and  was  admitted  to  the  bar  in  1840,  but  never  practised  his  profession..^" 
Genius  and  taste  alike  turned  him  to  literati  /In  1843  he  was  the  editor 
and  one  of  the  foun<lers  of  the  shoij|fh|d  periodical.  Tht  Pioneer,  which  took 
a  higher  stand  than  any  maga/in^^Mhe  timeSf  He  contributed  to  other 
periodicals,  but  he  became  widely  known  '  1848  Tlirough  the  ringing  satire 
of  the  Bii^loiv  Papers,  in  which  his  convictions  of  the  wrong  of  slavery  and 
the  crime  of  the  Mexican  War  found  ardent  ^d  effective  expression;  and 
also  by  his  Pa  He  for  Critics  and  Sir  Laifit/a/^  In  1851  he  made  his  first 
visit  to.  Kurope,  and  in  1855,  after  his  appointment  to  succeed  Longfellow  as 
Smith  professor  of  the  French  and  Spanish  languages  and  literatures  and 
of  belles-lettres  at  Harvard  College,  a  sec"nd  visit  of  several  years,  during 
which  he  laid  the  foundations  of  his  wide  knowledge  of  the  Romance 
guages  and  literatures.  For  twenty  years  his  time  was  absorbed  by  h, 
demic  duties,  by  his  share  in  the  editorship  of  the  Atlaitlir  Monthly  (1857),  and 
the  North  American  Review  (l863-72),'Shd  liy  the  writing  of  many  ofl^is  be"* 
essays.  In  1872,  however,  he  again  spent  a  year  in  Europe,  and  in  1877  he 
virtually  severed  his  connections  withjlarvanl  College  iiy  his  acceptance  of  an 
appointment  as  minister  to  Soain.  Cn  1880  he  was  transferred  t^  England, 
where  ne  served  until  l88jSy«  1887  he  paid  a  last  visit  to 
conferred  on  him  the  degrepS^D.C.L.  in  1873,  and  Cambridge 
in  i874.'l  Lowell  served  his  country  well,  not  only  as  a  diplomat,  an  editor,  a 
patriot  poet,  and  an  ess.iyist,  but  as  a  teacher,  and  through  his  continuation  at 
Harvard  College  of  the  studies  in  European  bntjuages  and  literatures  begun 
by  Ticknor  and  Longfellow,  the  cause  of  learning  and  culture  throughout  the 
land  received  a  distinct  impetus. 

Much  of  Lowell's  best  work  in  prose  was  contributed  to  various  periodicals. 
The  names  and  dates  of  the  volumes  containintj  his  published  prose  work  are 
as  follows:  Conversations  on  Some  of  the  Old  Poets  (1845),  Firesi/ie  Travels 
(1864),  Among  my  Books  (first  series,  1870;  secom'  .eries,  18767,  Aty  Study 
IVindnvs  (1871),  Democracy  and  Other  Addresses  (1886),  Political  Essays 
(1888),  Latest  Literary  Essays  and  Addresses  (1891),  The  Old  English  Drant' 
atists  (1892).     His  Letters,  edited  by  C.  E.  Norton,  appeared  in  1883.] 


iferred  ta  England, 
3  Enp'.indl^xford 
ri.lge  thatf  )f  LL.D. 


S^f^'"  ■*      ~  i^-i-'  -  -^^"  .-•--"  .,,--  --Ul  I  I.I.J.'      I  Ji     .  M    '^'i^l^W'^  JjH'"^  **         ¥-*j*^  I. "  -i!  \tf'fir-'     '^^  '* 


\ 


F.lmwooil,  in 
I.     lie  came 
at   Harvard 
;an  the  study  ^-^ 
is  professionTT* 
as  the  editor 
>•,  which  took 
ted  to  other 
inging  satire^ 
F  slavery  and 
ression ;    and 
[lade  his  first 
^ongfellow  as 
eratures  and 
years,  during 
lo.nance , 
d  by  hj! 


>-(  1857),  and 
ny  ofl^is  be* 
[1  in  1877  he 
jplance  of  an  . 
tu  England, 
indl^)xford 
hat'>f  LL.D. 
,  an  editor,  a 
intinuation  at 
ratures  begun 
iroughcut  the 

is  periodicals, 
•ose  work  are 
esiift  Travels 
'- ),  Afy  Study 
U/ical  Essays 
nglish  Dram- 
1883.] 


i 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 


359 


Among  American  men  of  letters  Lowell  stands  conspinious  alike 
for  variety  of  natur-il  gift  and  breadth  of  culture.  Poet,  wit, 
humorist,  scholar,  critic,  essayist,  professor,  diplomatist,  in  each 
capacity  he  exhibited  an  excellence  which  served  as  warrant  that 
had  he  limited  himself  to  a  single  art,  he  might  easily  have  attainetl 
to  the  highest  distinction  in  its  pursuit.  But  the  very  multiplicity 
of  his  endowments  interfered  with  the  complete  expression  of  any 
one  of  them.  His  talents  h.TiMpered  his  genius.  A  lifetime  is  long 
enough  for  most  men  to  make  full  use  of  their  possessions.  I5ut 
so  ample  were  his  resources  that  he  seemed  to  need  a  secular  term 
in  which  to  fulfil  the  service  which  they  were  capable  of  rendering. 
In  all  that  he  did  he  was  troubled,  not  by  lack  but  by  superfluity 
of  means.  Masterly  as  was  his  performance  in  many  fields,  his 
seventy  years  were  but  as  a  long  youth,  a  period  of  preparation 
for  the  completely  disciplined  exercise  of  his  natural  po.vers.  He 
was  never  content  with  his  own  achievements,  but,  with  unex- 
hausted ardor  and  unwearied  industry,  he  continued  to  the  end 
of  life  preparing  himself  for  the  work  in  which  his  genius  should 
exhibit  the  full  sweep  of  its  wing. 

Yet  in  his  poetry  and  in  his  prose,  however  ..luch  there  may  be 
that  is  deciduous,  there  is  much  of  perennial  quality  which  "  gives 
it  a  title  to  rank  as  literature  in  the  highest  sense."  His  best  work 
is  replete  with  an  undying  vitality ;  it  is  the  expression  of  a  spirit 
of  perpetual  contemporaneousness.  His  own  words  in  speaking 
of  the  classics  are  largely  applicable  to  .himself:  "Their  vitality 
is  the  vitality  not  of  one  or  another  blood  or  tongue,  but  of  human 
nature ;  their  truth  is  not  topical  -and  transitory,  but  of  universal 
acceptation ;  and  thus  all  great  authors  seem  the  coevals  not  only 
of  each  other,  but  of  whoever  reads  them,  growing  wiser  with  him 
as  he  grows  wise,  and  unlocking  to  him  one  secret  after  another 
as  his  own  Hfe  and  experience  give  him  the  key,  but  on  no  other 
condition.  Their  meaning  is  absolute,  not  conditional ;  it  is  a 
property  of  theirs  quite  irrespective  of  manners  or  creed  ;  for  the 
highest  culture,  the  development  of  the  individual  by  observa- 
lion,  i;eflection,  and  study  leads  to  one  result,  whether  in  Athens 
or  in  London  "  or  on  the  banks  of  the  Charles. 

Lowell  was  fortunate  in  his  birth  and  his  early  training.    The  time 
was  the  happiest  period  of  the  historic  .'ife  of  New  England.    The 


360 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


community  was  one  in  wliicii  homogeneousness  of  blood,  comir.on 
traditions,  simplicity  of  customs,  wide  diffusion  of  comfort  uail  of 
culture,  an  unusual  eciuality  of  condition,  a  general  disposition  to 
individual  inilependencc  and  mutual  reliance,  all  combined  to  pro- 
mote a  spirit  of  hopefulness,  confidence,  and  sympathy,  such  as 
has  rarely  existed  among  men.  For  a  youth  of  genius  it  was  a 
fortunate  society  in  which  he  grew  up.  There  were  few  adventi- 
tious difficulties  to  be  struggled  with ;  there  was  little  to  pervert 
the  natural  course  of  his  powers  ;  there  was  learning  enough  to  be 
had  for  their  due  cultivation  ;  the  moral  atmosphere  was  healthy. 
The  influence  of  such  conditions  v..  manifest  not  only  in  Ivowell's 
writings,  but  in  those  of  his  contemporaries  as  well ;  it  gave  its 
quality  to  the  wisdom  of  Kmerson,  to  the  poetry  of  Ix)ngfellow; 
and,  in  the  work  of  these  and  other  men  their  fellows,  the  salutary 
influence  is  perjjctuated  for  the  benefit  of  later  generations.  These 
men  in  their  writings,  and  in  their  lives,  gave  expression  and  form 
to  the  true  ideals  of  American  democracy. 

The  first  of  Lowell's  jirose  works,  Conversations  on  Some  of  the 
Old  Poets,  was  i)ublished  in  1845,  when  he  was  but  twenty-six  years 
old,  "  standing  as  yet  only  in  the  outer  porch  of  life."  Alike  in 
substance  and  in  form  it  exhibits  the  youthfulness  of  its  author,  but 
it  is  the  work  of  a  youth  already  capable  of  such  things  as  betoken 
great  achievements  to  come.  There  is  in  it  the  evidence  of  native 
force  of  mind,  of  poetic  temperament,  of  imaginative  insight  and 
critical  discrimination,  as  well  as  of  wide  reading  and  capacity  of 
so  assimilating  the  thought  of  others  as  to  make  it  the  nutriment 
of  originality  of  genius.  But  there  is  also  in  it  something  of  the 
perfervid  zeal  of  youth,  its  disposition  to  rhetorical  exuberance, 
its  exclusiveness  of  taste,  and  its  subjection  to  the  influences  of 
favorite  writers.  Lowell  rapidly  outgrew  these  defects,  they  be- 
came distasteful  to  him,  and  in  later  years  he  refrained  from 
reprinting  the  little  book  which,  in  spite  of  its  containing  much 
that  remained  characteristic  of  its  author,  was  the  work  of  a  writer 
different  in  some  important  respects  from  what  he  had  become. 
In  the  Address  to  the  Reader  with  which  it  begins  there  is,  how- 
ever, a  passage  which  is  of  interest  in  its  bearing  on  the  whole  of 
Lowell's  literary  work.  "  For  the  minor  faults  of  the  book,"  said 
the  young  authc.-,  "the  hurry  with  which  it  has  been  prepared  must 


".  *Jinv.-ir^iTi.*-ss^Aia«w-*.Vi-«-— .'"-ii.. 


^:.Ki^  r;it««in»Wii-onfA ' 


4cMft'fiecttb.^&i!lBi^'t«bMii«S&3m$f«>M^^ 


1,  comiT.on 
ort  uiiil  of 
)jsition  to 
led  to  i)ro- 
ly,  such  as 
s  it  was  a 
w  adventi- 
to  pervert 
ougli  to  be 
as  healthy. 
n  Lxjwell's 
it  gave  its 
-ongfellow ; 
he  salutary 
ins.  These 
1  and  form 

Some  of  the 
ty-bix  years 
'  Alike  in 
author,  but 
as  betoken 
ce  of  native 
insight  and 
capacity  of 
;  nutriment 
hing  of  the 
exuberance, 
ifluences  of 
ts,  they  be- 
ained  from 
ining  much 
c  of  a  writer 
ad  become, 
lere  is,  how- 
le  whole  of 
book,"  said 
epared  must 


JAMES  KUSSEI.L  LOWELL 


361 


plead  in  extenuation,  since  it  was  in  process  of  writing  and  printing 
at  the  same  time,  so  that  I  could  never  estimate  its  proportions  as 
a  whole."  The  same  words  might  have  been  repeated  as  an  intro- 
duction to  much,  indeed  to  the  greater  part,  of  his  writing  at  every 
period  of  his  life.  Poem  or  essay  as  it  might  be,  the  expression 
of  life-long  sentiment,  or  of  years  of  study  and  reflection,  it  was 
written  hastily.  The  pages  flew  from  the  study  to  the  press.  Low- 
ell's faculties  were  so  ready  at  command,  were  so  trained  and 
disciplined  by  continual  service,  that  he  could  trust  them  to  per- 
form efficiently  the  bidding  of  his  genius  whatever  it  might  require. 
But  even  the  most  consummate  master  cannot  always  give  perfec- 
tion of  form  to  work  in  his  first  shaping  of  it.  The  mentis  ateriue 
forma  is  not  to  be  rendered  in  its  completeness  at  the  first  effort. 
But  he  was  impatient  of  revision.  The  poetic  impulse  was  stronger 
in  him  than  the  artistic.  He  could  not  bring  himself  to  follow 
Donne's  example,  and  "cribrate,  recribrate,  and  postcribrate." 
The  very  abundance  of  his  genius  was  a  temptation  which  led 
him  to  care  little  for  what  lay  behind  him  already  accomplished, 
in  comparison  with  the  allurement  of  what  still  lay  before  him  to 
be  done.  And  he  had,  indeed,  such  ample  reason  for  confidence 
in  his  own  poweis,  thrit  the  lover  of  his  work  is  left  with  litde  to 
desire  but  that  the  gods  had  added  to  his  other  gifts  the  disposi- 
tion of  perfecting. 

At  its  best  Lowell's  prose  style  is  that  of  a  master  of  the  English 
tongue.  It  is  full  of  life  and  masculine  vigor.  In  its  large,  clear, 
and  easy  flow  it  is  the  expression  of  a  strong,  rich,  and  well-nurt- 
ured mind,  of  a  nature  generous  and  sweet,  and  of  a  poetic  tem- 
perament modified  by  the  tastes  of  a  scholar  and  of  a  student 
of  nature.  The  resources  of  the  language  are  at  his  command. 
There  is  no  conscious  effort  in  his  sentences,  no  mere  rhetorical 
display,  but  they  possess  a  natural  and  often  noble  modulation. 
The  form  which  he  gives  to  his  thought  seldom  makes  too  great 
a  claim  on  the  attention  of  the  reader ;  his  diction  is  in  general 
simple  and  direct,  full  without  redundancy,  word  and  phrase  hap- 
pily coalescing  with  the  thought.  There  is  much  in  his  style  of 
what  he  calied  "  that  happy  spontaneousness  which  delights  us  in 
the  best  writers,"  and  which,  seeming  to  partake  of  the  element 
of  luck,  is  evidence  of  the  highest  culture.     Now  and  then  his 


f 


tmmmtMM^mimmmv 


362 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


vivacity  of  fancy  leads  Iiim  beyond  the  bounds  of  a  chastc'ied 
taste,  and  he  drops  the  wand  of  the  magician  to  play  for  a  brief 
instant  with  the  lath  of  the  jester.  Hut  the  fulness  of  life  is  less 
often  manifest  in  superabundance  of  vivacity  than  in  happy  illus- 
tration, vivid  metaphor,  imaginative  simile,  or  wise  reflection. 

Of  all  his  prose  work  that  which  most  fully  displays  his  genius 
is,  perhaps,  the  body  of  his  essays  on  the  linglish  poets  and  drama- 
tists. There  are  no  literary  studies  in  the  language  more  instinct 
with  the  true  spirit  of  critical  appreciation,  none  which  may  serve 
better  as  an  introduction  not  merely  to  the  work  of  special  poets,  i 
but  to  Knglish  poetry  in  general.  For,  in  treating  of  the  poets 
from  Spenser  to  Wordsworth,  the  whole  field  is  traversed  along  the 
main  road  leailing  through  it,  and  many  of  its  by-paths  are  inci- 
dentally explored.  The  treatment  is  throughout  large,  liberal,  and  , 
just,  distinguished  by  poetic  insight,  scholarly  urbanity,  and  mature 

reflection. 

Yet  if  his  native  genius  finds  its  freest  expression  in  these  liter- 
ary essays,  his  character  is  perhaps  manifested  even  more  impres- 
sively in  his  political  writings.  The  spirit  that  pervades  them  is 
that  of  the  wise  and  practical  idealist,  who  knows  that  the  worth 
of  a  nation  and  the  strength  of  its  institutions  depend  upon  the 
nature  of  the  ideas  which  they  embody  and  represent,  and  that 
material  prosperity  is  in  the  long  run  dependent  upon  the  suprem- 
acy of  moral  principles.  The  vigorous  reasoning,  the  large 
knowledge  of  history,  the  wit,  the  clearness  of  statement,  the 
strong,  right  sentiment  of  these  essays  and  speeches  give  them  a 
high  rank  in  political  literature. 

Lowell's  place  is  secure  among  the  great  writers  of  English 
prose  ;  for  it  is  not  presumptuous  to  prophesy  that  much  of  his 
work  will  be  read  by  future  generations,  not  merely  for  its  impor- 
tance in  the  history  of  American  letters,  but  for  its  own  sake,  its 
wisdom  and  its  charm,  its  abiding  classic  quality. 

Charles  Eliot  Norton 


*<-S'-i<.'.»«J''»/'ii»*'**i' ^d*^*Mivi  .1.V 


b^imii^thgii>mMAi*i^^»^«i^s»M^t»ia0^i>ec 


chastciied 
for  a  brief 

life  is  less 
lappy  illus- 
?ction. 

his  genius 
md  ilraina- 
ore  instinct 
I  may  serve 
ecial  poets,  J 
f  the  poets 
(1  along  the 
IS  are  inci- 
liberal,  and  i 
and  mature 

I  these  liter- 
ore  impres-  ■ 
des  them  is 
It  the  worth 
<1  upon  the 
It,  and  that 
the  suprem- 
,  the  large 
tement,  the 
give  them  a 

of  English 
nuch  of  his 
r  its  impor- 
iwn  sake,  its 

r  Norton 


JAMES  KUSSELL  LOWtU.  363 


THE   YANKEE   CHARACTER 

TiiKRK  are  two  things  »pon  which  it  should  seem  fitting  to  di- 
late somewhat  more  largely  in  this  place,  —  the  'lankee  character 
and  the  Yankee  dialect.  And,  first,  of  the  Yankee  character, 
which  has  wanted  neither  open  maligners,  nor  even  more  danger- 
ous enemies  in  the  persons  of  those  unskilful  painters  who  have 
given  to  it  that  hardness,  angularity,  and  want  of  proper  perspec- 
tive, which,  in  truth,  belonged,  not  to  their  subject,  but  to  their 
own  niggard  and  unskilful  pencil. 

New  England  was  not  so  much  the  colony  of  a  mother  country, 
as  a  Hagar  driven  forth  into  the  wilderness.  The  little  self- 
exiled  band  which  came  hither  in  1620  came,  not  to  seek  gold, 
but  to  found  a  democracy.  They  came  that  they  might  have  the 
privileges  to  work  and  pray,  to  sit  upon  hard  benches  and  listen 
to  painful  preachers  as  long  as  they  would,  yea,  even  unto  thirty- 
seventhly,  if  the  spirit  so  willed  it.  And  surely  if  the  (Ireek 
might  boast  his  Thermopylte,  where  three  hundred  men  fell  re- 
sisting the  Persian,  we  may  well  be  proud  of  our  Plymouth  Rock, 
where  a  handful  of  men,  women,  and  children  not  merely  faced, 
but  vamiuished,  winter,  famine,  the  wilderness,  and  the  yet  more 
invincible  stoige  that  drew  them  back  to  the  green  island  far 
away.  These  found  no  lotus  growing  upon  the  surly  shore,  the 
taste  of  which  could  make  them  forget  their  little  native  Ithaca; 
nor  were  they  so  wanting  to  themselves  in  faith  as  to  burn  their 
ship,  but  could  see  the  fair  west-wind  belly  the  homeward  sail, 
and  then  turn  unrepining  to  grapple  with  the  terrible  Unknown. 

As  Want  was  the  prime  foe  these  hardy  exodists  had  to  fortress 
themselves  against,  so  it  is  little  wonder  if  that  traditional  feud 
be  long  in  wearing  out  of  the  stock.  The  wounds  of  the  old 
warfare  were  long  ahealing,  anc'  an  east-wind  of  hard  times  puts 
a  new  ache  in  every  one  of  them.  Thri.'t  was  the  first  lesson  in 
their  horn-book,  pointed  out,  letter  after  letter,  by  the  lean  finger 
of  the  hard  schoolmaster,  Necessity.  Neither  were  those  plump, 
rosy-gilled  Englishmen  that  came  hither,  but  a  hard-faced,  atra- 
bilious, earnest-eyed  race,  stiff  from  long  wrestling  with  the  Lord 
in  prayer,  and  who  had  taught  Satan  to  dread  the  new  Puritan 


ii 

1! 


\ 


f'. 


» 


364 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


hug.      Add  two  liiindrcd  years'  influence  of  soil,  climate,   and 
txposiiri",   witii   its   ne»  essary  result  of    idiosyncrasies,   and  we 
have  the  present  YanlLce,  full  of  expedients,  half-master  of  all 
trades,  inventive  in  all  but  the  beautiful,  full  of  shifts,  not  yet 
capable  of  comfort,  armed  at  all  points  against  the  old  enemy 
Hunger,  longanimous,  good  at  patching,  not  so  careful  for  what 
is  best  as  for  what  will  do,  with  a  clasp  to  his  purse  and  a  button 
to  his  pocket,  not  skilled  to  build  against  Time,  as  in  old  coun- 
tries, but  against  sore-i)ressing  Need,  accustomed  to  move  the 
world  with  no  jtov  o-Tui  but  his  own  two  feet,  and  no  lever  but  his 
own  long  forecast.     A  strange  hybrid,  indeed,  did  circumstance 
beget,  here  in  the  New  World,  upon  the  old  Puritan  stocl-   and 
the  earth  never  before  saw  such  mystic-practicalism,  such  ni.  gard- 
geniality,  such  calculating-fanaticism,  such  cast-iron-enthu  ;iasm, 
such  unwilling-humor,   such  c\o:,<.  fj.ued-generosity.     This  new 
Gni'iulux  esurkns  will  make  a  living  out  of  anything.     He  will 
invent  new  trades  as  well  as  tools.     His  brain  is  his  capital,  and 
he  will  get  education  at  all  risks.     Put  him  on  Juan  Fernandez, 
and  he  would  make  a  spelling-book  first,  and  a  salt-pan  after- 
ward.    In  ccclitm,  jussfris,  ibit, — or  the  other  way  either,  —  it 
is  all  one,  so  anything  is  to  be  got  by  it.     Yet,  after  all,  thin, 
speculative  Jonathan  is  more  like  the  Knglishman  of  two  centu- 
ries ago  than  John  Bull  himself  is.     He  has  lost  somewhat  in 
solidity,  has  become  fluent  and  adaptable,  but  more  of  the  origi- 
nal groundwork  of  character  remains.     He  feels  more  at  home 
with    Fulke   Greville,    Herbert  of   Cherbury,    Quarles,   George 
Herbert,  and  Browne,   than  with  his  modern  English  cousins. 
He  is  nearer  than  John,  but  by  at  least  a  hundred  years,  to  Naseby, 
Marston  Moor,  Worcester,   and  the  time  when,   if  ever,  there 
were  true  Englishmen.     John  Bull  has  suffered  the  idea  of  the 
Invisible  to  be  very  much  fattened  out  of  him.     Jonathan  is  con- 
scious still  that  he  lives  in  the  world  of  the  Unseen  as  well  as  the 
Seen.     To  move  John  you  must  make  your  fulcrum  of  solid  beef 
and  pudding;  an  abstract  idea  will  do  for  Jonathan. 

[  The  Biglow  Papers,  First  Series,  1848,  "  Introduction."     The  text  is  that 
of  the  tirst  edition.] 


"  '■T*ftiiSJi>^-*r».','-jric"'*)fei<l.-iii.t-:^r>*»i':v'*;i*^^ffl^l- 


itoaaM«»^^.aa^'«aife.*aa^itfw>tKii-ai^»ii^?<Pvmwtfffltfi^ 


nate.  and 
i,  and  we 
ster  of  all 
ts,  not  yet 
:)ld  enemy 
1  for  wliat 
:1  a  button 
old  coun- 

tnove  the 
'er  but  his 
eumstance 
stocl  and 
h  ni.gard- 
nthu  liasni, 

This  new 
.  He  will 
ipital,  and 
rernandez, 
■pan  after- 
lither,  —  it 
:  all,  thin, 
two  centu- 
imewhat  in 
f  the  origi- 
re  at  home 
:s,  George 
h  cousins, 
to  Naseby, 
ever,  there 
dea  of  the 
han  is  con- 
well  as  the 

solid  beef 

e  text  ii  that 


JAME^  RUSSELL  LOWELL  365 


CAMiM<lI)(;i':  THIRTY    YEARS   AC.O 

A   MKM()n<    ADDKKSSKI)   TO   Till-    I'.DKI.MANN    STOKO    IN    KKMK 

In  thor.c  quiet  old  winter  evenings,  around  our  Roman  fireside, 
it  was  not  seldom,  my  dear  Storg,  that  we  talked  of  tlie  advantagts 
of  travel,  and  in  speeches  not  so  long  that  our  cigars  would  forget 
their  fire  (the  measure  of  just  conversation)  debated  the  compar- 
ative adv  antages  of  the  Old  and  the  New  Worlds.    Vou  will  remem- 
ber how  serenely  1  bore  the  imputation  of  provincialism,  while  I 
asserted  that  those  advantages  were  reciprocal ;  that  an  orbed  and 
balanced  life  would  revolve  between  the  Old  and  the  New  as  it: 
opi)ositc,  but  not  antagonistic  poles,  the  true  equator  lying  some- 
where midway  between  them.      1  asserted  also  that  there  were    , 
two  epochs  at  which  a  man  might  travel, —before  twenty,  for/ 
pure  enjoyment,  and  after  thirty,  for  instruction.     At  twenty,  the 
eye  is  sufficiently  delighted  with  merely  seeing;  new  things  are 
pleasant  only  because  they  aie  not  old;  and  we  take  everything 
heartily  and   naturally  in   the   right  way,    events   being  always 
like  knives,  which  either  serve  us  or  cut  us,  as  we  grasi)  them  by 
the  blade  or  the  handle.     After  thirty,  we  carry  with  us  our  scales 
with  lawful  weights  stamped  by  experience,  and  our  chemical 
tests  acquired  by  study,  with  which  to  ponder  and  assay  all  arts, 
and  institutions,  and  manners,  and  to  ascertain  either  their  abso- 
lute worth,  or  their  merely  relative  value  to  ourselves.     On  the 
whole,  I  declared  myself  in  favor  of  the  after-thirty  method,  — 
was  it  partly  (so  difficult  is  it  to  distinguish  between  opinions 
and  personalities)  because  I  had  tried   it  myself,  though  with 
scales  so  imperfect  and  tests  so  inadequate?     Perhaps  so,  but 
more  because  I  held  that  a  man  should  have  travelled  thoroughly 
round  himself  and  the  great  terra  incognita  just  outside  and  inside 
his  own  threshold,  before  he  undertook  voyages  of  discovery  to 
other   worlds.       Let  him   first  thoroughly  exjilore   that   strange 
country  laid  down  on  the  maps  as  Skauton;  let  him  look  down  * 
into  its  craters  and  find  whether  they  be  burnt  out  or  only  sleep- 
ing; let  him  know  between  the  good  and  evil  fruits  of  its  passion- 
ate tropics;  let  him  experience  how  healthful  are  its  serene  and 


3r,r> 


AMERICAN  I'NOS/-: 


hinh-lying  table-lands;  Ut  him  be  many  times  driven  back  (till 
he  wisoly  consriit  to  l)c  balTInli  from  its  inctipliysicd  northwest 
]).issat^i's  tiiat  lead  only  to  the  dreary  solitudes  of  a  siiidess 
world,  before  he  think  himself  morally  e(Hiipi)ed  for  travels  to 
more  distant  ref^ioos.  Hut  does  he  commonly  esen  so  much  us 
tiiink  of  this,  or,  while  buying  amplest  trunks  for  his  cori)oreal 
apparel,  does  it  once  ocnir  to  him  how  very  small  a  i)ortmanteau 
will  contain  all  his  mental  and  spiritual  outfit?  Oftener,  it  is 
true,  thai  a  man  who  could  scarce  be  induced  to  expose  his  un- 
clothed body,  even  in  a  village  of  prairie  dogs,  will  complacently 
display  a  mind  as  naked  as  the  day  it  was  born,  without  so  much 
as  a  fig-leaf  of  actiuirement  on  it,  in  every  gallery  of  I'.urope.  If 
not  with  a  robe  «lyed  in  the'l'yrian  jnirple  of  imaginative  culture, 
if  not  with  the  close-fitting,  active  ilress  of  social  or  business 
training, — at  least,  my  flear  Storg,  one  might  provide  himself 
with  the  merest  waist-clout  of  modesty! 

lilt  if  it  be  too  much  to  expect  men  to  traverse  and  survey 
themselves  before  they  go  abroad,  we  might  ccrtaiidy  ask  that 
they  should  be  familiar  with  their  own  villages.  If  not  even  that, 
then  it  is  of  little  import  whither  they  go,  and  let  ns  hope  that, 
by  seeing  how  calmly  their  own  narrow  neigld)orhood  bears  their 
departure,  they  may  be  led  to  think  that  the  circles  of  disturbance 
set  in  motion  by  the  fall  of  their  tiny  drop  into  the  ocean  of  eter- 
nity, will  not  have  a  radius  of  more  than  a  week  in  any  ilirection; 
and  that  the  world  can  endure  the  subtraction  of  even  a  justice 
of  the  peace  with  provoking  e>iuanimity.  In  this  way,  at  least, 
foreign  travel  may  do  them  good,  may  make  them,  if  not  wiser, 
at  any  rate  less  fussy.  Is  it  a  great  way  to  go  to  school,  and  a 
great  fee  to  pay  for  the  lesson  ?  Wo  cannot  pay  too  much  for 
that  genial  stoicism  which,  when  life  flouts  us  and  says  —  Put 
TH.vr  in  your  pipe  and  smoke  it!  —  can  puff  away  with  as  sincere  a 
relish  as  if  it  were  tobacco  of  Mount  Lebanon  in  a  narghileh  of 
Damascus. 

After  all,  my  dear  Storg,  it  is  to  know  thins!^  that  one  has  need- 
to  travel,  and  not  men.     Those  force  us  to  come  to  them,  but 
these  come  to  us  —  sometimes  whether  we  will  or  no.     These 
exist  for  us  in  every  variety  in  our  own   town.     Vou   may  find 
your  antipodes  without  a  voyage  to  China;  he  lives  there,  just 


liflV 


piP»t*v^s*f.^-^s^ji5ir-' 


••Slilhe^,Kl,iaMlim^m»i^u<ilall^^l!J||>)^^ 


/AMES  KUSSia.l.    I.OWEl.l. 


367 


round  tlic  next  corner,  precise,  formal,  the  slave  of  i)re<e(lent, 
making  all  his  tea-cups  with  a  break  in  the  cd^f,  bei  aiise  hiH 
model  had  one,  ami  your  fancy  decorates  him  with  an  endlessness 
of  airy  iii^tail.  There,  too,  are  John  Mull,  Jean  Crapaud,  Hans 
SiUierkraiit,  I'at  Murphy,  and  the  rest. 
It  hiis  l)cen  well  said  — 

"He  nceiU  no  »l\ip  to  cr<i»»  the  tide, 
Who,  in  the  live*  around  him,  socs 
Knir  windiiw-prospL'cta  opening  wide 
'     O'ft  history's  liidds  on  cvt-ry  side, 

Rome,  Kgypt,  Knglaml,  In<l,  and  (Irecce. 

"WhatcvLT  mould*  of  various  lirain 

K'cr  shaped  tlic  world  to  weal  or  woe, — 

Whatever  Empires  \va-.  and  uaiic, — 

To  him  who  hath  not  eyes  in  vain. 

His  villatje-microcosm  can  show." 

i 
Ihit  M/w^f  are  good  for  nothing  out  of  their  natural  habilat.  If 
the  heroic  Harnurn  had  sticceeded  in  transjjlanting  Shakespeare's 
house  to  America,  what  interest  would  it  have  had  for  us,  torn 
out  of  its  appropriate  setting  in  softly-hilled  Warwickshire,  which 
showed  us  that  the  itiost  ICnglish  of  poets  must  be  born  in  the 
most  English  of  counties?  I  mean  by  a  Tliiiii^  that  which  is  • 
not  a  mere  spectacle,  that  which  the  mind  leaps  forth  to,  as  it 
also  leaps  to  the  mind,  as  soon  as  they  come  within  each  other's 
sphere  of  attraction,  and  with  instantaneous  coalition  form  anew 
product  — knowledge.  Such,  in  the  understanding  it  gives  us  of 
early  Roman  history,  is  the  little  territory  around  Rome,  the 
mentis  cunahula,  without  a  sight  of  which  Livy  and  Niebuhr  and 
the  maps  are  vain.  So,  too,  one  must  go  to  Pompeii  and  the 
Museo  Borbonifo,  to  get  a  true  conception  of  that  wondrous 
artistic  nature  of  the  Greeks,  strong  enough,  even  in  th.  petty 
colony,  to  survive  foreign  conquest  and  to  assimilate  barbarian 
blood,  showing  a  grace  and  fertility  of  invention,  whose  Roman 
copies  Raffaello  himself  could  only  copy,  and  enchanting  even 
the  base  utensils  of  the  kitchen  with  an  inevitable  sense  of 
beauty  to  which  we  subterranean  Northmen  have  not  yet  so  much 
as  dreamed  of  climbing.     Mere  sights  one  can  see  quite  as  well 


irw 


m 

i  I 
1 


*■''.■w■^■l^w^»*ftJ^»|j»i*^F(*^^>P^jyK*^W*^»3^^^^^!^r%  le'-gM-H^tri  irftffms  m  tt  niyi  iwy. |i>n  «(^ 


nmmiy.ftm 


368 


AMERICAN  rROSE 


at  home.  Mont  Blanc  does  not  tower  more  grandly  in  the 
memory,  than  did  the  d-oam-peak  which  loomed  afar  on  the 
morning-horizon  of  hope;  nor  did  the  smoke-palm  of  Vesuvius 
stand  more  erect  and  fair,  with  tapering  stem  and  spreading  top, 
in  that  Parthenopeian  air  than  under  the  diviner  sky  of  imagina- 
tion. I  know  what  Shakespeare  sny;-  about  home-keeping  youths, 
and  1  can  fancy  what  you  will  add  about  America  being  interest- 
ing only  as  a  phenomenon,  and  uncomfortable  to  live  in,  because 
we  have  not  yet  done  with  getting  ready  to  live.  But  is  not  your 
Europe,  on  the  other  hand,  a  place  where  men  have  done  living 
for  the  -^resent,  and  of  value  chiefly  because  of  the  men  who  had 
done  living  in  it  long  ago?  And  if,  in  our  rapidly-moving 
country,  one  feel  sometimes  as  if  he  had  his  home  in  a  railroad 
train,  is  there  not  also  a  satisfaction  in  knowing  that  one  is  going 
f<?w<fwhere?  To  what  end  visit  Europe,  if  people  carry  with 
them,  as  most  do,  their  old  parochial  horizon,  going  hardly  as 
Americans  even,  much  less  as  men?  Have  we  not  both  seen 
persons  abroad  who  put  us  in  mind  of  parlor  goldfish  in  their 
vase,' isolated  in  that  little  globe  of  their  own  element,  incapable 
of  communication  with  the  strange  world  around  them,  a  show 
themselves,  while  it  was  always  doubtful  if  they  could  see  at  all 
beyond  the  limits  of  their  portable  pris(n?  The  wise  man 
travels  to  discover  himself;  it  is  to  find  himself  out  that  he  goes 
out  of  himself  and  his  habitual  associations,  trying  everything  in 
turn  till  he  find  that  one  activity,  sovran  over  him  by  divine 
right,  toward  which  all  the  disbanded  powers  of  his  nature  and 
the  irregular  tendencies  of  his  life  gather  joyfully,  as  to  the 
common  rallying-point  of  their  loyalty. 

All  these  things  we  debated  while  the  ilex  logs  upon  the  hearth 
burned  down  to  tinkling  coals,  over  which  a  gray,  soft  moss  of 
ashes  grew  betimes,  mocking  the  poor  wood  with  a  pale  travesty 
of  that  green  and  gradual  decay  on  forest-floors,  its  natural  end. 
Already  the  clock  at  the  Capuccini  \.o\A  the  morning  quarters,  and 
on  the  pauses  of  our  talk  no  sound  intervened  but  the  muffled 
hoot  of  an  owl  in  the  near  convent-garden,  or  the  rattling  tramp 
of  a  patrol  of  that  French  army  which  keeps  him  a  prisoner  in 
his  own  city  who  claims  lo  lock  and  unlock  the  doors  of  heaven. 
But  still  the  discourse  would  eddy  round  one  obstinate  rocky  tenet 


'i-'^vlfir'Sc^-.A  ■f^!&'> 


'/.y*.'«MV:^A-^>«i^^it«>Ai*r^---«a^ 


!•»«■■.. 


JAMES  RUSSELL   LOWELL 


369 


andly  in  the 
[  afar  on  the 
n  pf  Vesuvius 
preading  top, 
y  of  imagiiia- 
eping  youths, 
leing  interest- 
,'e  in,  because 
ut  is  not  your 
I  done  living 
men  who  had 
ipidly-nioving 
in  a  railroad 
t  one  is  going 
)le  carry  with 
ing  hardly  as 
ot  both  seen 
dfish  in  their 
.Mit,  incapable 
them,  a  show 
3uld  see  at  all 
lie  wise  man 
t  that  he  goes 
everything  in 
im  by  divine 
is  nature  and 
lly,  as  to  the 

»on  the  hearth 
soft  moss  of 
pale  travesty 
natural  end. 
quarters,  and 

X  the  muffled 

•attling  tramp 
a  prisoner  in 

)rs  of  heaven. 

ite  rocky  tenet 


of  mine,  for  I  maintained,  you  remember,  that  the  wisest  man 
>was  he  who  stayed  at  home;  that  to  see  the  anticpiities  of  the  old 
world  was  nothing,  since  the  youth  of  the  world  vas  really  no 
farther  away  from  us  than  our  own  youth ;  and  that,  moreover,  we 
had  also  in  America  things  amazingly  old,  as  our  boys,  for  ex- 
ample.    Add,  that  in  the  end  this  antiquity  is  a  matter  of  com- 
parison, which  skips  from  place  to  place  as  nimbly  as  Emerson's 
sphinx,  and  that  one  old  thing  is  good  only  till  we  have  seen  an 
older.     England  is  ancient  till  we  go  to   Rome.     Etruria  de- 
thrones Rome,  but  only  to  pass  this  sceptre  of  Antiquity  which 
so  lords  it  over  our  fancies  to  the   PeLisgi,  from  w'iom   Egypt 
straightway  wrenches  it  to  give  it  up  in  turn  to  older  India.     And 
whither  then?     As  well  rest  upon  the  first  step,  since  the  effect 
of  what  is  old  upon  the  mind  is  single  and  positive,  not  cumula- 
tive.    As  soon  as  a  thing  is  past,  it  is  as  infinitely  far  away  from 
us  as  if  it  had  happened  millions  of  years  ago.     And  if  the  learned 
Huet  be  correct,  who  reckoned  that  every  human  thought  and 
record  could  be  included  in  ten  folios,  what  so  frightfully  old 
as  we  ourselves,  who  can,  if  we  choose,  hold  in  our  memories 
every  syllable  of  recorded  time,  from  the  first  crunch  of  Eve's 
teeth  in  the  apple,  downward,  being  thus  ideally  contemporary 
with  hoariest  Eld? 

"  Thy  pyramids  built  up  with  newer  might 
To  us  are  nothing  novel,  nothing  strange." 

Now,  my  dear  Storg,  you  know  my  (what  the  phrenologists  call) 
inhabitiveness  and  adhesiveness,  how  I  stand  by  the  old  thought, 
the  old  thing,  the  old  place,  and  the  old  friend,  till  I  am  very 
sure  I  have  got  a  better,  and  even  then  migrate  painfully.     Re- 
member the  old  Arabian  story,  and  think  how  hard  it  is  to  pick 
up  all  the  pomegranate-seeds  of  an  opponent's  argument,  and 
how,  as  long  as  one  remains,  you  are  as  far  from  the  end  as  ever. 
Since  I  have  you  entirely  at  my  mercy  (for  you  cannot  an«ver  me 
under  five  weeks)  you  will  not  be  surprised  at  the  advent  of  this 
letter.      I   had    always  one  impregnable   position,  which   was, 
that  however  "ood  other  places  might  be,  there  was  only  one 
in  which  we  could  be  born,  and  which  therefore   possessed  a 
quite  peculiar  and  inalienable  virtue.     We  had  the  fortune,  which 

2B 


VKinvweamxiiaM^, 


.1^^^ 


n 


• 


I 


370 


AMERICAN  P/iOSE 


neither  of  us  have  had  reason  to  call  other  than  good,  to  jouiney 
together  through  the  green,  secluded  valley  of  boyhood;  together 
we  climbed  the  mountain  wall  which  shu*  "t  in,  and  looked  upon 
those  Italian  plains  of  early  manhood;  and,  since  then,  we  have 
met  sometimes  by  a  well,  or  broken  bread  together  at  an  oasis  in 
the  arifl  desert  of  life,  as  it  truly  is.     With  this  letter  I  propose 
to  make  you  my  fellow-traveller  in  one  of  those  fireside  voyages 
which,  as  we  grow  older,  we  make  oftener  and  oftener  through 
our  own  past.     Without  leaving  your  elbow-chair,  you  shall  go 
back  with  me  thirty  years,  which  will  bring  you  among  things  and 
persons  as  thoroughly  preterite  as  Romulus  or  Numa.     For,  so 
rapid  are  our  changes  in  America,  that  the  transition  from  old  to 
new,  the  shifting  from  habits  and  associations  to  others  entirely 
different,  is  as  rapid  almost  as  the  pushing  in  of  one  scene  and 
the  drawing  out  of  another  on  the  stage.     And  it  is  this  which 
makes  America  so  interesting  tc  t'^p  philosophic  student  of  his- 
tory and  man.     Here,  as  in  a  theatre,  the  great  problems  of 
anthropology,  which  in  the  old  world  were  ages  in  "olving,  but 
which  are  solved,  leaving  only  a  dry  net  result;  are   compressed, 
as  it  were,  into  the  entertainment  of  a  few  hours.    Here  we  have 
I  know  not  how  many  epochs  of  history  and  phases  of  civilization 
contemporary  with  each  other,  nay,  within  live  minutes  of  each 
other  by  ihe  electric  telegraph.     In  two  centuries  we  have  seen 
rehearsed  the  dispersion  of  man  from  a  small  point  over  a  whole 
coiitine"L;  we  witness  with  our  own  eyes  the  action  of  those  forces 
which  govern  the  great  migration  of  the  peoples,  now  historical 
in  Europe;  we  can  watch  the  action  and  reaction  of  different 
races,  forms  of  government,  and  higher  or  lower  civilizations. 
Over  there,  you   have  only  the  dead   precipitate,  demanding 
tedious  analysis;  but  here  the  elements  are  all  in  solution,  and 
we  have  only  to  look  to  know  them  all.     History,  which  every  day 
makes  less  account  of  governors  and  more  of  man,  must  find  here 
the  compendious  key  to  all  that   picture-writing  of   the  Past. 
Therefore  it  is,  my  dear  Storg,  that  we  Yankees  may  still  esteem 
our  America  a  place  worth  living  in.     But  calm  your  apprehen- 
sions :  I  do  not  propose  to  drag  you  with  me  on  such  an  historical 
circumnavigation  of  the  globe,  but  only  to  show  you  that  (how- 
ever needful  it  may  be  to  go  abroad  for  the  study  of  sesthetics)  a 


-  (^.SA'a; »S;i  wi^Vi^^'^^M-AJrti.-Ai Hi  'i^'AA 


v-rfw«wJieg»-.^'iK'^*-/.feM*:va&fc<*3nw>1te^^ 


■■f^Jstmmmf^T^- 


1 


JAMES  KUSSEf.l.  LOWELL 


371 


to  jouiney 

together 

)oked  upon 

n,  we  have 

an  oaiis  in 

r  I  propose 

de  voyages 

er  through 

:)U  shall  go 

things  and 

.     For,  so 

from  old  to 

ers  entirely 

scene  and 

this  which 

lent  of  his- 

roblems  of 

olving,  but 

om  pressed, 

sre  we  have 

civilization 

tes  of  each 

:  have  seen 

ver  a  whole 

those  forces 

w  historical 

Df  different 

iviiizations. 

demanding 

ilution,  and 

:h  every  day 

ist  find  here 

[   the  Past. 

still  esteem 

•  apprehen- 

n  historical 

that  (how- 

Bsthetics)  a 


man  who  uses  the  eyes  of  his  heart,  may  find  here  also  pretty  bits 
of  what  may  be  called  the  social  picturesque,  and  little  land- 
scapes over  which  that*  Indian-summer  atmosphere  of  the  Past 
broods  as  sweetly  and  tenderly  as  over  a  Roman  ruin.  Let  us 
look  at  the  Cambridge  of  thirty  years  since. 

The  seal  of  the  oldest  college  in  America,  it  had,  of  course, 
some  of  that  cloistered  quiet  which  characterizes  all  university 
towns.  15ut,  underlying  this,  it  had  an  idiosyncrasy  of  its  own. 
Boston  was  not  yet  a  city,  and  Cambridge  was  still  a  country  vil- 
lage, with  its  own  hiibits  and  traditions,  not  yet  feeling  too 
strongly  the  force  of  suburban  gravitation.  Approaching  it  from 
the  west  by  what  was  tl  en  called  the  New  Road  (it  is  so  called 
no  longer,  for  we  change  our  names  whenever  we  can,  to  the 
great  detriment  of  all  historical  association)  you  would  pause  on 
the  brow  of  Symonds'  Hill  to  enjoy  a  view  singularly  soothing 
and  placid.  In  front  of  you  lay  the  town,  tufted  with  elms,  lin- 
dens, and  horse-chestnuts,  which  had  seen  Massachusetts  a 
colony,  and  were  fortunately  unable  to  emigrate  with  the  tories 
by  whom,  or  by  whose  fathers,  they  were  planted.  Over  it  rose 
the  noisy  belfry  of  the  college,  the  square,  brown  tower  of  the 
church,  and  the  slim,  yellow  spire  of  the  parish  meeting-house, 
by  no  means  ungraceful,  and  then  an  invariable  characteristic  of 
New  England  religious  architecture.  On  your  right,  the  Charles 
slipped  smoothly  through  green  and  purple  salt-meadows,  dark- 
ened, here  and  there,  with  the  blossoming  black-grass  as  with  a 
stranded  cloud-shadow.  Over  these  marshes,  level  as  water,  but 
without  its  glare,  and  with  softer  and  more  soothing  gradations 
of  perspective,  the  eye  was  carried  to  a  horizon  of  sioftly-rounded 
hills.  To  your  left  hand,  upon  the  Old  Road,  you  saw  some  half- 
dozen  dignified  old  houses  of  the  colonial  time,  all  comfortably 
fronting  southward.  If  it  were  spring-time,  the  rows  of  horse- 
chestnuts  along  the  fronts  of  these  houses  showed,  through  every 
crevice  of  their  dark  heap  of  foliage,  and  on  the  end  of  every 
drooping  limb,  a  cone  of  pearly  flowers,  while  the  hill  behind 
was  white  or  rosy  with  the  crowding  blooms  of  various  fruit-trees. 
There  is  no  sound,  unless  a  horseman  r  latters  over  the  loose  planks 
of  the  bridge,  while  his  antipodal  shadow  glides  silently  over  the 
mirrored  bridge  below,  or  unless 


1-1 


372 


AMERICAN  PROSE 

"()  winged  rapture,  feathered  soul  of  spring, 
ISlithc  voice  of  woods,  fields,  waters,  all  in  one,  / 

ripe  blown  through  l)y  the  warm,  u>iW  Lireath  of  June, 
Shepherding  her  white  flocks  of  woolly  clouds. 
The  llolnilink  has  come,  and  climbs  the  wind 
With  rippling  wings,  that  (juaver,  not  for  flight. 
But  only  joy,  or,  yielding  to  its  will, 
Kuns  down,  a  brook  of  laughter,  through  the  air." 


li 


''■d 


Such  was  the  charmingly  rural  picture  which  he  who,  thirty 
years  ago,  went  eastward  over  Symonds'  Hill,  had  given  him  for 
nothing  to  hang  in  the  Gallery  of  Memory.  But  we  are  a  city 
now,  and  Common  Councils  have  as  yet  no  notion  of  the  truth 
(learned  long  ago  by  many  a  European  hamlet)  that  picturesque- 
ness  adds  to  the  actual  money  value  of  a  town.  To  save  a  few 
dollars  in  gravel,  they  have  cut  a  kind  of  dry  ditch  through  the 
hill,  where  you  suffocate  with  dust  in  summer,  or  flounder  through 
waist-deep  snow-drifts  in  winter,  with  no  prospect  but  the  crum- 
bling earth-walls  on  each  side.  The  landscape  was  carried  away, 
cart-ioad  by  cart-load,  and,  deposited  on  the  roads,  forms  a  part 
of  that  unfathomable  pudding,  which  has,  I  fear,  driven  many  a 
teamster  and  pedestrian  to  the  use  of  phrases  not  commonly  found 
in  English  dictionaries. 

We  called  it  "  the  Village  "  then  (I  speak  of  Old  Cambridge), 
and  it  was  essentially  an  English  village,  quiet,  unspeculative, 
without  enterprise,  sufficing  to  itself,  and  only  showing  such  dif- 
ferences from  the  original  type  as  the  public  school  and  the  sys- 
tem of  town  government  might  superinduce.  A  few  houses, 
chiefly  old,  stood  around  the  bare  common,  with  ample  elbow- 
room,  and  old  women,  capped  and  spectacled,  still  peered  through 
the  same  windows  from  which  they  had  watched  Lord  Percy's 
artillery  rumble  by  to  Lexington,  or  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  hand- 
some Virginia  General  who  had  come  to  wield  our  homespun 
Saxon  chivalry.  People  were  still  living  who  regretted  the  late 
unhappy  separation  from  the  Mother  Island,  who  had  seen  no 
gentry  since  the  Vassalls  went,  and  who  thought  that  Boston  had 
ill  kept  the  day  of  her  patron  saint,  Botolph,  on  the  17th  June, 
1775.  The  hooks  were  to  be  seen  from  which  had  swung  the 
hammocks  of  Burgoyne's  captive  red  coats.    If  memory  does  not 


l^;UWM<BWl»kSi««*i4'«*'.*ii!.«E-*o  Vt»i«*'«k»B«l^^ 


lune, 


who,  thirty 
^en  him  for 
e  are  a  city 
)f  the  truth 
licturesque- 
j  save  a  few 
through  the 
ider  through 
it  the  crum- 
irried  away, 
forms  a  part 
iven  many  a 
Tionly  found 

Cambridge), 
speculative, 
ng  such  dif- 
and  the  sys- 
few  houses, 
Tiple  elbow- 
sied  through 
vord  Percy's 
of  the  hand- 
r  homespun 
ted  the  late 
lad  seen  no 
t  Boston  had 
e  17  th  June, 
J  swung  the 
ory  does  not 


JAMES  RUSSELL   LOWELL 

deceive  me,  women  still  washed  clothes  in  the  town-spring,  clear 
as  that  of  IJandusia.     Une  coach  sufficed  for  all  the  travel  to  the 
metropolis.     C^oiiiinenceinent  had   not   ceased  to  be  tiie  great 
holiday  of  the  I'uritan  Commonwealth,  and  a  fitting  one  it  was 
—  the  festival  of  Santa  Scolastica,   whos«^    tiiumph^il  I'^'th  one 
may  conceive  strewn  with  leaves  of  spelling  book  instead  of  bay. 
The  students  (scholars  they  were  called  then)  wore  their  sober 
uniform,  not  ostentatiously  distinctive   nor  capable  of   rousing 
democratic  envy,  and  the  old  lines  of  caste  were  blurred  rather 
than  rubbed  out,  as  servitor  was  softened  into  beneficiary.     The 
Spanish  king  was  sure  that  the  gesticulating  student  was  either 
mad  or  leading  Don  Quixotte,  and  if,  in  those  days,  you  met  a 
youth  swinging  his  arms  and  talking  to  himself,  you  might  con- 
clude that  he  was  either  a  lunatic  or  one  who  was  to  appear  in  a 
"part"  at  the  next  Commencement.     A  favorite  place  for  the 
rehearsal  of  these  orations  was  the  retired  amphitheatre  of  the 
Gravelpit,  perched  unregarded  on  whose  dizzy  edge,  I  have  heard 
many  a  burst  of  plus-qiiain-  Ciceronian  eloquence,  and  (often  re- 
peated) the  regular  saluto  vos  piaestantissimas,  &c.,  which  every 
year  (with  a  glance  at  the  gallery)  causes  a  flutter  among  the  fans 
innocent  of  Latin,  and  delights  to  applauses  of  conscious  superi- 
ority the  youth  almost  as  innocent  as  they.     It  is  curious,  by  the 
way,  to  note  how  plainly  one  can  feel  the  pulse  of  sel*   in  the 
plaudits  of  an  audience.     At  a  political  meeting,  if  the  enthusi- 
asm of  the  lieges  hang  fire,  it  may  be  exploded  at  once  by  an  al- 
lusion to  their  intelligence  or  patriotism,  and  at  a  literary  festival, 
the  first  Latin  quotation  draws  the  first  applause,  the  clapping  of 
hands  being   intended  as  a  tribute  to  our  own   familiarity  with 
that  sonorous  tongue,  and  not  at  all  as  an  approval  of  the  particu- 
lar sentiment  conveyed  in  it.     For  if  the  orator  should  say, 
"Well  has  Tacitus  remarked,  Americani  omnes  sunt  naturali- 
ier  fures  et  stuiti,"  it  would  be  all  the  same.     But  the  Gravel- 
pit  was  patient,  if  irresponsive;  nor  did  the  declaimer  always 
fail  to  bring  down  the  house,  bits  of  loosened  earth  falling  now 
and  then  from  the  precipitous  walls,  their  cohesion  perhaps  over- 
come by  the  vibrations  of  the  voice,  and  happily  satirizing  the  effect 
of  most  popular  discourses,  which  prevail  rather  with  the  clay 
than  with  the  spiritual  part  of  the  hearer.     Was  it  possible  for 


warn 


374 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


us  in  those  days  to  conceive  of  a  greater  potentate  than  the  Presi- 
dent of  the  University,  in  his  square  doctor's  cap,  that  still 
filially  rec  died  t)xfurd  and  Cauihridj,  J ?  H  there  was  a  doubt,  it 
was  suggested  only  by  the  Governor,  and  even  by  him  on  artillery 
election  days  alone,  superbly  martial  with  epaulets  ami  buckskin 
breeches,  and  bestriding  the  war  horse,  promoted  to  that  solemn 
duty  for  his  tameness  and  steady  habits.  ^ 

Thirty  years  ago,  the  Town  had  indeed  a  character.     Railways 
and  omnibuses  had  not  rolled  flat  all  little  social  prominences 
and  peculiarities,  making  every  man  as  much  a  citizen   every 
where   as  at  home.     No  Charlestown  boy  could  come  to  our 
annual  feuival,  without  fighting  to  avenge  a  certain  traditional 
porcine    imputation   against   the    inhabitants   of    that    historic 
locality,  to  which  our  youth  gave  vent,  in  fanciful  imitations  of 
the  dialect  of  the  sty,  or  derisive  shouts  of  "Charlestown  hogs!  " 
The  penny  newspaper  had  not  yet  silenced  the  tripod  of  the  bar- 
ber, oracle  of  news.     Every  body  knew  every  body,  and  all  about 
every  body,  and  village  wit,  whose  high  'change  was  around  the 
little  market-house  in  the  town-square,  had  labelled  every  more 
marked   individuality   with   nick-names   that   clung   like   burs. 
Things  were  established  then,  and  men  did  not  run  through  all 
the  fi^jures  on  the  dial  of  society  so  swifdy  as  now,  when  hurry 
and  competition  seem  to  have  quite  unhung  the  modulating  pen- 
dulum of  steady  thrift,  and  competent  training.      Some  slow- 
minded  persons  even  followed  their  father's  trade,  an  humiliating 
spectacle,    rarer   every  day.     We   had   our  established  loafers, 
topers,  proverb-mongers,  barber,  parson,  nay,  postmaster,  whose 
tenure  was  for  life.     The  great  political  engine  did  not  then 
come  down  at  regular  quadrennial  intervals,  like  a  nail-cutting 
machine,  to  make  all  official  lives  of  a  standard  length,  and  to 
generate  lazy  and  intriguing  expectancy.     Life  flowed  in  recog- 
nized channels,  narrower,  perhaps,  but  with  all  the  more  indi- 
viduality and  force. 

If  K.  were  out  of  place  as  president,  that  was  not  P.  as  Greek 
professor.  Who  that  ever  saw  him  can  forget  him,  in  his  old 
age,  like  a  lusty  winter,  frosty  but  kindly,  with  great  silver  spec- 
tacles of  the  heroic  period,  such  as  scarce  twelve  noses  of  these 


ii  ■'iwii^m»*5iv»5'ywn(v-*i)i^iL- 


■i:iySm^kmmfiiid^S»-Ai^^»S»e>Mr^^^ 


in  the  Presi- 
[),  that  still 
s  a  doubt,  it 
1  oil  artillery 
ml  buckskin 
that  solemn 

Railways 
prominences 
itizen   every 
ome  to  our 
i  traditional 
hat    historic 
mitations  of 
town  hogs! " 
;l  of  the  bar- 
md  all  about 
i  around  the 
1  every  more 
y   like   burs. 
I  through  all 
,  when  hurry 
lulating  pen- 
Some  slow- 
1  humiliating 
shed  loafers, 
laster,  whose 
lid  not  then 
.  nail-cutting 
:ngth,  and  to 
ved  in  recog- 
s  more  indi- 


t  P.  as  Greek 
n,  in  his  old 
it  silver  spec- 
loses  of  these 


JA.'ES  RUSSEl.L  LOW  El  I. 


375 


degenerate  days  could   bear?     lie  was  a  natural   celibf.te,  not 
dwelling  "like  the  fly  in  the  heart  of  the  apple,"  but  like  a  lonely 
bee,  rather,  absconding  himself  in  Mymcttian  llowers,  incapable 
of  matrimony  as  a  solitary  palm-tree,     'i'here  was  not  even  a  tra- 
dition of  youthful  disappointment.     I  fancy  him  arranging  his 
scrupulous  toilet,  not  for  Amaryllis  or  Nea:ra,  but,  like  Machia- 
velli,  for  the  society  of  his  beloved  classics.     His  ears  had  needed 
no  prophylactic  wax  to  pass  the  Sirens*  isle,  nay,  he  would  have 
kept  them  the  wider  open,  studious  of  the  dialect  in  which  they 
sang,  and  perhaps  triumphantly  detecting  the  Aeolic  digamma  in 
their   lay.      A   thoroughly   single    man,    single-minded,    single- 
hearted,  buttoning  over  his  single  heart  a  single-breasted  surtout, 
r.nd  wearing  always  a  hat  of  a  single  fashion,  —  did  he  in  secret 
regard  the  dual  number  of  his  favorite  language  as  a  weakness? 
The  son  of  an  officer  of  distinction  in  the  Revolutionary  War, 
he  mounted  the  pulpit  with  the  erect  port  of  a  soldier,  and  carried 
his  cane  more  in  the  fashion  of  a  weapon  than  a  staff,  but  with 
the  point  lowered  in  token  of  surrender  to  the  peaceful  proprie- 
ties of  his  calling.     Yet  sometimes  the  martial  instincts  wou'd 
burst  the  cerements  of  black  coat  and  clerical  neck-cloth,  as  once 
when  the  students  had  got  into  a  fight  upon  the  training-field, 
and  the  licentious  soldiery,  furious  with  rum,  had  driven  them  at 
point  of  bayonet  to  the  college-gates,  and  even  threatened  to  lift 
their  arms  against  the  Muses'  bower.     Then,  like  Major  Goffe 
at  Deerfield,  suddenly  appeared  the  grayhaired  P.,  all  his  father 
resurgent  in  him,  and  shouted,  "  Now,  my  lads,  stand  your  ground, 
you're  in   the  right  now!  don't  let  one   of   them  get  inside 
the  college  grounds!"     Thus  he  allowed  arms  to  get  the  better 
of  the  toga,  but  raised  it,  like  the  Prophet's  breeches,   into  a 
banner,  and  carefully  ushered  resistance  with  a  preamble  of  in- 
fringed right.     Fidelity  was  his  strong  characteristic,  and  burned 
equably  in  him  through  a  life  of  eighty-three  years.     He  drilled 
himself  till  inflexible  habit  stood  sentinel  before  all  those  pos- 
tern-weaknesses which  temperament  leaves  unbolted  to  tempta- 
tion.    A  lover  of  the  scholar's  herb,  yet  loving  freedom  more, 
and  knowing  that  the  animal  appetites  ever  hold  one  hand  behind 
them  for  Satan  to  drop  a  bribe  in,  he  would  never  have  two  segars 
in  his  house  at  once,  but  walked  every  day  to  the  shop  to  fetch 


;■ .. 


'  e:! 


m 


m 


III 

k . 


■.II 


11. 


m 


376  AMKh'lCA.V  I'/iOSK 

his  single  diuriKil  sohicc.     Nor  would  lie  trust  himself  with  two 
on  Saturdays,  preferring  (since  he  could  not  violate  the  Sahhath 
even  hy  that   infinitesimal   traffic)   to   dei)cnd  on  Providential 
ravens,  which  were  seldom  wanting  in  the  shape  of  some  black- 
coated  friend  who  knew  his  need  and  honored  the  scruple  that 
occasioned  it.     He  was  faithful  also  to  his  old  hats,  in  which 
appeared  the  constant  service  of  the  antique  world,  and  which  he 
preserved  for  ever,  piled  like  a  black  pagoda  under  his  dressing- 
table.      No   scarecrow   was   ever   the   residuary  legatee   of   his 
beavers,  though  one  of  them  in  any  of  the   neighboring  peach- 
orchards  would  have  been  sovran  against  an  attack  of  freshmen. 
He  wore  them  all  in  turn,  getting  through  all  in  the  course  of  the 
year,  like  the  sun  through  the  signs  of  the  Zodiac,  modulating 
them  according  to  seasons  and  celestial  phenomena,  so  that  never 
was  spider-web  or  chickweed  so  sensitive  a  weather-gauge  as 
they.     Nor  did  his  political  party  find  him  less  loyal.     Taking 
all  the  tickets,  he  would  seat  himself  apart  and  carefully  com- 
pare them  with  the  list  of  regular  nominations  as  printed  in  his 
Dai/y  Adverliscr  before  he  dropped  his  ballot  in  the  box.     In 
less  ambitious  moments  it  almost  seems  to  me  that  I  would  rather 
have  had  that  slow,  conscientious  vote  of  ^'.'s  alone,  than  have 
been  chosen  alderman  of  the  ward ! 

If  you  had  walked  to  what  was  then  Sweet  Auburn  by  the  pleas- 
ant Old  Road,  on  some  June  morning  thirty  years  ago,  you  would, 
very  likely,  have  met  two  other  characteristic  persons,  both  phan- 
tasmagoric now,  and  belonging  to  the  Past.  Fifty  years  earlier, 
the  scarlet-coated,  rapiered  figures  of  Vassall,  Oliver,  and  Brattle, 
creaked  up  and  down  there  on  red-heeled  shoes,  lifting  the  cere- 
monious three-cornered  hat,  and  offering  the  fugacious  hospitali- 
ties of  the  snuff-box.  They  are  all  shadowy  alike  now,  not  one 
of  your  Etruscan  Lucumos  or  Roman  Consuls  more  sc,  my  dear 
Storg.  First  is  W.,  his  queue  slender  and  tapering  like  the  tail 
of  a  violet  crab,  held  out  horizontally,  by  the  high  collar  of  his 
shepherd's-gray  overcoat,  whose  style  was  of  the  latest  when  he 
studied  at  Leyden  in  his  hot  youth.  The  age  of  cheap  clothes 
sees  no  more  of  those  faithful  old  garments,  as  proper  to  their 
wearers  and  as  distinctive  as  the  barks  of  trees,  and  by  long  use 
interpenetrated  with  their  very  nature.     Nor  do  we  see  so  many 


■'«fe'a:«af^»lia.i*M^'«!ea«W*rt«se^lS«<»««9W!S. 


i  with  two 
ic  Sabbath 
rovidential 
)ine  bhick- 

ruple  that 

,  in  which 
(I  which  he 

s  (Iressing- 
itec  of  /lis 
ing  peach- 
[  freshmen. 
Qurse  of  the 
modulating 
3  that  never 
er-gauge  as 
il.  Taking 
cfnlly  com- 
inted  in  his 
le  box.  In 
r'ould  rather 
I,  than  have 

)y  the  pleas- 
,  you  would, 
both  phan- 
ears  earlier, 
and  Brattle, 
ng  the  cere- 
is  hospitali- 
)w,  not  one 
sc,  my  dear 
like  the  tail 
:ollar  of  his 
:st  when  he 
eap  clothes 
per  to  their 
by  long  use 
see  so  many 


JAMES  RUSSF.l.l.   l.OWIU.I 


377 


Humors  (still  in  the  old  sense)  now  that  every  man's  soul  belongs 
to  the  Public,  as  when  social  distinctions  were  more  marked,  and 
men  felt  that  their  iHTsonalities  were  their  castles,  in  which  they 
could  entrench  themselves  against  the  world.  Nowadays  men  are 
shy  of  lettiiig  their  true  selves  be  seen,  as  if  in  some  former  life 
they  had  committed  a  crime,  and  were  all  the  time  afraid  of  dis- 
covery and  arrest  in  this,  formerly  they  used  to  insist  on  your 
giving  the  wall  to  their  peculiarities,  and  you  may  still  find  ex- 
amples of  it  in  the  parson  or  the  doctor  of  r  !red  vUlages.  One 
of  W.'s  oddities  was  touching.  A  little  brook  used  to  run  across 
the  street,  and  the  sidewalk  was  carried  over  it  by  a  broad  stone. 
Of  course,  there  is  no  brook  now.  What  use  did  that  little 
glimpse  of  ripple  serve,  where  the  children  used  to  launch  their 
chip  fleets?  W.,  in  going  over  this  stone,  which  gave  a  hollow 
resonance  to  the  tread,  used  to  strike  upon  it  three  times  with  his 
cane,  and  mutter  Tom  !  Tom !  Tom  !  I  used  to  think  he  was  only 
mimicking  with  his  voice  the  sound  of  the  blows,  and  possibly  it 
was  that  sound  which  suggested  his  thought  —  for  he  was  remem- 
bering a  favorite  nephew  prematurely  dead.  Perhaps  Tom  had 
sailed  his  boats  there;  perhaps  the  reverberation  under  the  old 
man's  foot  hinted  at  the  hollowness  of  life;  perhaps  the  fleeting 
eddies  of  the  water  brought  to  mind  the /usances  (innos.  W.,  like 
P.,  wore  amazing  spectacles,  fit  to  transmit  no  smaller  image  than 
the  page  of  mightiest  folios  of  Dioscorides  or  Hercules  de 
Saxonia,  and  rising  full-disked  upon  the  beholder  like  those 
prodigies  of  two  moons  at  once,  portending  change  to  monarchs. 
The  great  collar  disallowing  any  independent  rotation  of  the  head, 
I  remember  he  used  to  turn  his  whole  person  in  order  to  bring 
their  /od  to  bear  upon  an  object.  One  can  fancy  that  terrified 
nature  would  have  yielded  up  her  secrets  at  once,  without  cross- 
examination,  at  their  first  glare.  Through  them  he  had  gazed 
fondly  into  the  great  mare's-nest  of  Junius,  publishing  his  obser- 
vations upon  the  eggs  found  therein  in  a  tall  octavo.  It  was  he 
who  introduced  vaccination  to  this  Western  World.  He  used  to 
stop  and  say  good-morning  kindly,  and  pat  the  shoulder  of  the 
blushing  school-boy  who  now,  with  the  fierce  snow-storm  wilder- 
ing  without,  sits  and  remembers  sadly  those  old  meetings  and 
partings  in  the  June  sunshine. 


r 


37« 


AMI-.mCAN  PKOSK 


it  I 


1 


.1 

H 


li 


;i! 


W 


'I'licn,  there  was  S,,  whose  resounding  "haw!  haw!  haw!  by 
(IcorKc!"  positively  enlarged  the   income  of  every  dweiler  in 
Cambridge.    In  downright,  honest  good  cheer  and  good  neighbor- 
hood it  was  worth  five  hundred  a  year  to  every  one  of  iis.     Its 
jovial  thunders  cleared  the  mental  air  of  every  sulky  cloud.     Per- 
l)etual  childhu    '  dwelt  in  him,  the  childhood  of  his  native  South- 
ern France,  an      its  fixeii  air  was  all  the  time  bubbling  up  and 
sparkling  and  winking  in  his  eyes.     It  seemed  as  if  his  placid  old 
face  were  only  a  mask  behind  which  a  merry  Clupid  had  ambushed 
himself,  peeping  out  all  the  while,  and  ready  to  drop  it  when  the 
play  grew  tiresome.     Every  word  he  uttered  seemed  to  be  hilari- 
ous, no  matter  what  the  occasion.     If  he  were  sick  and  you  vis- 
ited him,  if  he  had  met  with  a  misfortune  (and  there  art  few  men 
so  wise  that  they  can  look  even  at  the  back  of  a  retiring  sorrow 
with  composure),  it  was  all  one;  his  great  laugh  went  off  as  if 
it  were  set  like  an  alarum-clock,  to  run  down,  whether  he  would 
or  no,  at  a  ce-tain  nick.     Kven  after  an  ordinary  good  morning  f 
(especially  if  to  an  old  pupil,  and  in  French,)   the  wonderful 
haw.'  haw!  haw!  by  George!  would  burst  upon  you  unexpectedly 
like  a  salute  of  artillery  on  some  holiday  which  you  had  forgotten. 
Every  thing  was  a  joke  to  him  — that  the  oath  of  allegiance  had 
been  administered  to  him  by  your  grandfather,  —  that  he  had 
taught  I'rescott  his  first  Spanish  (of  which  he  was  proud)  — no 
matter  what.     Every  thing  came  to  him  marked  by  nature  —  right 
side  up,  with  care,  and  he  kept  it  so.     The  world  to  him,  as  to 
all  of  us,  was  like  a  medal,  on  the  obverse  of  which  is  stamped 
the  image  of  Joy,  and  on  the  reverse  that  of  Care.     S.  never  took 
the  foolish  pains  to  look  at  that  other  side,  even  if  he  knew  its 
existence;  much  less  would  it  have  occurred  to  him  to  turn  it 
into  view  and  insist  that  his  friends  should  look  at  it  with  him. 
Nor  was  this  a  mere  outside  good-humor;  its  source  was  deeper 
in  a  true  Christian  kindliness  and  amenity.     Once  when  he  had 
been  knocked  down  b>  a  tipsily-driven  sleigh,  and  was  urged  to 
prosecute  the  offende..:  — "  No,  no,"  he  said,  his  wounds  still 
fresh,  "young  blood!  young  blood!  it  must  have  its  way;  I  was 
young  myself."      Was!  few  men  come  into  life  so  young  as  S. 
went  out.     He  landed  in  Boston  (then  the  front  door  of  America) 
in  '93,  and,  in  honor  of  the  ceremony,  had  his  head  powdered 


*J»«KS»,.  »ESBS««i»Wi'St'~«fc»»«i*5^ift***«« 


^mm^ti' 


!  haw  I  by 
dweller  in 
I  neighbor- 
j(  us.  Its 
3ud.  I'er- 
tive  South- 
ing up  and 

placid  old 
1  ambushed 
it  when  the 
3  be  hilari- 
nd  you  vis- 
re  few  men 
itig  sorrow 
nt  off  as  if 
:r  he  would 
/  morning! 

wonderful 
lexpectedly 
J  forgotten, 
giance  had 
hat  he  had 
iroud)  —  no 
ture  —  right 
3  him,  as  to 

is  stamped 
,  never  took 
he  knew  its 
n  to  turn  it 
it  with  him. 

was  deeper 
vhen  he  had 
vas  urged  to 
wounds  still 


way: 


I  was 


young  as  S. 
of  America) 
,d  powdered 


JAMES  KUSSHU.   I.OWlil.l. 


379 


afresh,  and  put  on  a  suit  of  court-mourning  before  he  set  foot  on 
the  wharf.     My  fancy  always  drcssetl  him  in  that  violet  silk,  and 
his  soul  certainly  wore  a  lull  court-suit.     What  was  there  ever 
like  his  bow?     It  was  as  if  you  had  received  a  decoration,  and 
could  write  yourself  gentleman   from  that  day  forth.     His  hat 
rose,  regrecting  your  own,  and,  having  sailed  through  the  stately 
curve  of  tiie  old  regime,  sank  gently  back  over  that  placid  bri'.in 
which  harbored  no  thought  less  while  than  the  powder  which  cov- 
ered it.     I  have  son»etimes  imaginetl  that  there  was  a  graduated 
arc  over  his  head,  invisible  to  other  eyes  than  his,  by  which  he 
meted  out  to  each  his  rightful  share  of  castorial  consideration. 
1  car.y  in  my  memory  three  exemplary  bows.     The  first  is  that 
of  an  old  beggar,  who  already  carrying  in  his  hand  a  white  hat, 
the  gift  of  benevolence,  took  off  the  black  one  from  his  head  also, 
and  profoundly  saluted  me  with  both  at  once,  giving  me,  in  re- 
turn for  my  alms,  a  dual  benediction,  puzzling  as  a  nod  from 
Janus  Bifrons.     The  second  1  received  from  an  old  Cardinal  who 
was  taking  his  walk  just  outside  the  I'orta  San  C.iovanni  at  Rome. 
I  paid  him  the  courtesy  due  to  his  age  and  rank.     Forthwith 
rose  — first,  the  Hat;  second,  the  hat  of  his  confessor;  third, 
that  of  another  priest  who  attended   him;  fourth,  the  fringed 
cocked-hat  of  his  coachman;  fifth  and  sixth,  the  ditto,  ditto,  of 
his  two  footmen.     Here  was  an  investment,  indeed;  six  hundred 
per  cent,  interest  on  a  single  bow !    The  third  bow,  w(jrthy  to  be 
noted  in  one's  almanac  among  the  other  mirahilia,  was  that  of  S., 
in  which  courtesy  had  mounted  to  the  last  round  of  her  ladder, 
—  and  tried  to  draw  it  up  after  her. 

But  the  genial  veteran  is  gone  even  while  I  am  writing  this,  and 
I  will  play  Old  Mortality  no  longer.     Wandering  among  these 

rtrent  graves,  my  dear  friend,  we  may  chance  to  ,  but  no, 

I  will  not  end  my  sentence.     I  bid  you  heartily  farewell ! 

[Firtside  Travels  :  "Cambridge  Thirty  Yeats  Ago."     Putnam's  Magazine, 
1854,  vol.  iii.] 


I.!' 


380 


AMERICAN  I'KOSR 


KKAISS   I'OKTKY 

The  faults  of  Ki-ats's  poetry  are  oljvioiis  imioiikIi,  but  it  should 
be  rememhcrcd  that  he  died  at  twenty  four,  and  that  he-  offends 
'by  superabuntlance  anil  not  poverty.  'I  hat  he  was  ovcrlanjjuaged  ' 
at  first  there  <:an  be  no  doubt,  and  in  this  was  implied  the  pos- 
sif)iiity  of  falling  bai  k  to  the  perfect  mean  of  diction.  It  is  only 
by  the  rich  that  the  costly  |)lainness,  which  at  once  satisfies  the 
taste  and  the  imagination,  is  attainable. 

Wi'.etlier  Keats  was  original  or  not  we  do  not  think  it  useful  to 
discuss  vmtil  it  has  been  settled  what  originality  is.  Mr.  Milnes 
tells  us  that  this  merit  (whatever  it  is)  has  been  denied  to  Keats 
because  his  poems  take  the  color  of  the  authors  he  hajjpened  to 
be  reading  at  the  time  he  wrote  them.  Hut  men  have  their  intel- 
lectual ancestry,  and  the  likeness  of  some  one  of  them  is  forever 
unexpectedly  Hashing  out  in  the  features  of  a  descendant,  it  may 
be  after  a  gap  of  several  generations.  In  the  parliament  of  the 
present,  every  man  represents  a  constituency  of  the  past.  It  is 
true  that  Keats  has  the  accent  of  the  men  from  whom  he  learned 
to  speak,  but  this  is  to  make  originality  a  mere  question  of  exter- 
nals, and  in  this  sense  the  author  of  a  dictionary  might  bring  an 
action  of  trover  against  every  author  who  used  his  words.  It  is 
the  man  behind  the  words  that  gives  them  value,  and  if  Shak- 
speare  help  himself  to  a  verse  or  a  phrase,  it  is  with  ears  that  have 
learned  of  him  to  listen  that  we  feel  the  harmony  of  the  one,  and 
it  is  the  mass  of  his  intellect  that  makes  the  other  weighty  with 
meaning.  Enough  that  we  recognize  in  Keats  that  undefinable 
i  newness  and  unexpectedness  that  we  call  genius.  The  sunset 
is  original  every  evening,  though  for  thousands  of  years  it  has 
built  out  of  the  same  light  and  vapor  its  visionary  cities  with 
dorties  and  pinnacles,  and  its  delectable  mountains  which  night 
shall  utterly  abase  and  destroy. 

Three  men,  almost  contemporaneous  with  each  other,  Words- 
worth, Keats,  and  Byron,  were  the  great  means  of  bringing  back 
''English  poetry  from  the  sandy  deserts  of  rhetoric,  and  recovering 
for  her  her  triple   inheritance  of  simplicity,  sensuousness   and 
passion.     Of  these,  Wordsworth  was  the  only  conscious  reformer, 


)<.XSSnl:!S>!^^3<KS&^i!M«'ty\MS!«^';SS»^:^^ 


'■MM«MiMFiAiMt»v- 


•ateSsMte. 


JAMES  RUSSIU.r.  i.owr.ii. 


.^Rt 


it  it  slioulil 
lie  offends 
■rlangiiageil  ' 
d  the  pos- 
it is  only 
latibfleH  the 

it  usefid  to 
Mr.  Milnes 
ed  to  Keats 
lappened  to 
tiieir  intel- 
n  is  forever 
lant,  it  may 
ment  of  the 
past.     It  is 
1  he  learned 
on  of  exter- 
^ht  bring  an 
^ords.     It  is 
nd  if  Shak- 
ars  that  have 
the  one,  and 
kveighty  with 
undefinable 
'Ihe  sunset 
years  it  has 
y  cities  with 
which  night 

ther,  Words- 
ringing  back 
id  recovering 
lousness  and 
JUS  reformer, 


and  his  hostility  to  the  existing   formalism   injured  liis  earlier 
pDtins  by  tinging  them  with  soimtliiiig  of  iconoclnstic  rxtrava- 
gance.     He  was  the  deepest  thinker,  Keats  the  most  e-.scnlially  ^ 
a  poet,  and   Hyron   the   most  keenly   intellectual  of   the   three. 

J  Keats  had  llie  broadest  mind,  or  at  least  his  mind  was  ojien  in 
more  sides,  and  he  was  able  to  uixlerstand  Wordsworth  and  judge 
llyron,  eipially  conscious,  through  his  artistic  sense,  of  the  great- 
nesses of  the  one,  and  the  many  littlenesses  of  the  other,  while 
Wordsworth  was  isolated  in  a  iLtii..,"  of  his  prophetic  character, 
and  Myron  had  only  an  uneasy  and  jealous  instinct  of  contem- 
porary merit.  The  |)i)cms  of  Wonlsworth,  as  he  was  the  most 
individual,   accordingly   reflect  the   moods  cf  his  own   nature; 

■^those  of  Keats,  from  sensitiveness  of  organization,  the  moods  of 
his  own  taste  and  feeling;  and  those  of  Hyron,  who  was  impres- 
sible chiefly  through  the  understanding,  the  intellectual  and 
moral  wants  of  the  time  in  which  he  lived.  Wordsworth  has  in- 
fluenced most  the  ideas  of  succeeding  poets;  Keats  their  forms; 
and  Hyron,  interesting  to  men  of  imagination  less  for  his  writ- 
ings than  for  what  his  writings  indicate,  reappears  no  more  in 
poetry,  but  presents  an  ideal  to  youth  made  restless  with  vague 
desires  not  yet  regulated  by  experience  nor  supplied  with  motives 
by  the  duties  of  life. 

As  every  young  person  goes  through  all  the  world-old  experi- 
ences, fancying  them  something  peculiar  and  personal  to  himself, 
so  it  is  with  every  new  generation,  whose  youth  always  finds  its 
representatives  in  its  poets.  Keats  rediscovered  the  delight  and'' 
wonder  that  lay  enchanted  in  the  dictionary.  Wordsworth  re- 
volted at  the  poetic  diction  which  he  found  in  vogue,  but  his  own 
language  rarely  rises  above  it  except  when  it  is  upborne  by  the 
thought.  Keats  had  an  instinct  for  fine  words,  which  are  in  / 
themselves  pictures  and  ideas,  and  had  more  of  the  power  of 
poetic  expression  than  any  modern  ICnglish  poet.  And  by  poetic 
expression  we  do  not  mean  merely  a  vividness  in  particulars,  but 
the  right  feeling  which  heightens  or  subdues  a  passage  or  a  whole 
poem  to  the  proper  tone,  and  gives  entireness  to  the  effect. 
There  is  a  great  deal  more  than  is  commonly  supposed  in  this 
choice  of  words.  Men's  thoughts  and  opinions  are  in  a  great 
degree  vassals  of  him  who  invents  a  new  phrase  or  reapplies  an 


-6i. 


38^ 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


i 


.  <* 


old  epithet.  '1  he  thought  or  feeling  a  thousand  limes  repeated, 
becomes  his  at  last  who  utters  it  best.  This  power  of  language 
is  veiled  in  the  old  legends  .vh  ch  make  the  invisible  powers  the 
servants  of  some  word.  As  soon  as  we  have  discovered  the  word 
for  our  joy  or  sorrow  we  are  no  longer  its  sc.fs,  but  its  lords. 
We  reward  the  discoverer  of  an  anesthetic  for  the  body  and  make 
him  member  of  all  the  societies,  but  him  who  finds  a  nepenthe 
for  the  soul  we  elect  into  the  small  academy  of  the  immortals. 

The  poems  of  Keats  mark  an  epoch  in  English  poetry;  for,» 
however  often  we  may  find  traces  of  it  in  others,  in  them  found 
its  most  unconscious  expression  that  reaction  against  the  barrel- 
organ  style  which  had  been  reigning  by  a  kind  of  sleepy  divine 
right  for  half  a  century.     The  lowest  point  was  indicated  when 
there  was  such  an  utter  confounding  of  the  common  and  the  un- 
common sense  that  Dr.  Johnson  wrote  verse  and  Burke  prose. 
The  most  profound  gospel  of  criticism  was,  that  nothing  was  good 
poetry  that  could  not  be  translated   into  good  prose,  as  if  one 
should  say  that  the  test  of  sufficient  moonlight  was  that  tallow- 
candks  co\ild  be  made  of  it.     We  find  Keats  at  first  going  to  the 
othsr  extreme,  and  endeavoring  to  extract  green  cucumbers  from 
the  rays  of  tallow;  but  we  see  also   incontestable  proof  of  the 
greatness  and  purity  of  his  poetic   gift  in  the  constant  return 
toward  equilibrium  and  repose  in  his  later  poems.     And  it  is  a 
repose  always  lofty  and  clear-aired,  like  that  of  the  eagle  balanced 
in  incommunicable  sunshine.     In  him  a  vigorous  understanding  » 
developed  itself  in  equal  measure  with  the  divine  faculty;  thought 
emancipated  itself  from  expression  without  becoming  in  turn  its 
tyrant;   and  music  and  meaning  floated  together,  accordant  as 
swan  and  shadow,  on  the  smooth  element  of  his  verse.     Without 
losing  its  sensuousness,  his  poetry  refined  itself  and  grew  more 
inward,  and  the  sensational  was  elevated  into  the  typical  by  the 
control  of  that  finer  sense  which  underlies  ilie  senses  and  is  the 
spirit  of  them. 

{The  life  of  Keats,  prefixed  to    The  Poetical  Works  of  John  Keats,  Bos- 
ton, 1854.] 


% 


y'>^mmKu;imtmmm^r^~?siSi^s^i&& 


7i&SlSi^^^&MSSSi^tiS& 


les  repeated, 
■  of  language 
e  powers  the 
red  the  word 
Jilt  its  lords. 
)dy  and  make 
Is  a  nepenthe 
e  immortals. 

poetry;  (or,» 
n  them  found 
5t  the  barrel- 
sleepy  divine 
dicated  when 
11  and  the  un- 
Burke  prose, 
ling  was  good 
)se,  as  if  one 
5  that  tallow- 
t  going  to  the 
cumbers  from 

proof  of  the 
instant  return 
And  it  is  a 
agle  balanced 
inderstanding 
:ulty;  thought 
ing  in  turn  its 

accordant  as 
rse.  Without 
nd  grew  more 
typical  by  the 
ses  and  is  the 

fohn  Keats,  Bos- 


''^^^^eM^^im^. , 


WALT   WHITMAN 

rWalt  (Walter)  Whitman  was  born  at  West  Hills,  Long  Island,  May  31, 
1819,  and  died  at  Camden,  N.J.,  March  25,  1892.     Mis  father  was  of   Lng- 
lish    his  mother  of  Dutch  descent,  and  on  his  mother's  side  there  was  also 
Quaker  blood.     His  forma!  education  did  not  go  beyond  that  furnished  by  :he 
public  schools,  but  he  read  much,  and  had  a  rare  gift  for  assimilating  the  essence 
of  what  he  read.     1  lis  youth  was  spent  in  varied  pursuits.     He  was  at  different 
times  a  teacher,  a  compositor,  and  an  editor.     In  1847-48  he  edited  the  Brook. 
Ivn  Eaelc      In   1849  he  started  on  a  long  tour,  largely  performed  on  foot,  to 
the  chief  cities  of  the  country.     He  jomneyed  through  Pennsylvania  and  Vir- 
einia  down  the  Ohio  and  the  Mississippi  to  New  Orleans,  and  returned  by  way 
of  St.'  Louis,  Chicago,  and  the  lake  cities,  finding  means  for  his  trave  s  by  work 
on  various  journals.    In  1851-52  he  owned  and  manage.l  a  Brooklyn  paper. 
For  some  years  he  was  a  carpenter  and  builder.     During  the  war  he  was  a  vol- 
unteer  nurse  in  the  Washington  hospitals,  supporting  himself  by  writing  for  the 
newspapers.     The  nervous  strain  of  his  experiences  as  a  nurse  and  an  attack 
of  hospital  fever  made  severe  inroads  on  his  robust  constitufun,  but  he  held 
a  government  clerkship   from   1865   until   1874,  when  he  was  stricken  with 
partial  paralysis,  from  the  effect  of  which  he  never  wholly  recovered.     Ihe  re- 
mainder of  his  life  he  spent  mainly  in  Camden,  N.J.,  visiting  New   \ork 
frequently,  and  occasionally  making  longer  journeys.    No  American  writer  has 
known  the  rank  and  file  of  his  countrymen  as  Whitman  did.      In  "  Man- 
hattan," the  city  he  knew  best  and  loved  best,  as  well  as  in  other  cities  and  in 
the  country,  he  "  became  thoroughly  conversant,"  as  his  biographer  attests, 
"with  the  shops,  houses,  sidewalks,  ferries,  factories,  tavern  gatherings,  politi- 
cal meetings,  carousings,  etc.     He  knew  the  hospitals,  poorh.nises,  prisons, 
and  their  inmates,"  and  honest  laborers  of  all  kinds  and  descriptions,  with 
people  of  greater  education.     And  to  this  wide  knowledge  lie  added  a  sym- 
pathy equally  penetrating  and  all-embracing.  ,  a     ■     ,t 

Whitman's  principal  prose  writings  are :  Democratic  Ftstas  (iSji),  Afo'i- 
oranda  during  the  War  (\%Ti),  Specimen  Days  and  Collect  (1882-83),  A>- 
vemlier  Boughs  (1888).] 

The  reputation  of  Walt  Whitman  rests  upon  the  poetical  por- 
tion of  his  writings ;  but  while  that  part  of  his  works  remains  in 
the  public  eye,  as  it  long  must  on  account  of  its  singularity  of 
form  and  its  inspiration,  the  lesser  part  which  appears  in  the  garb 
of  prose  will  also  be  of  interest,  as  containing  the  history  of  the 

383 


a 


384 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


man  and  the  abstract  ideas  of  the  writer.  In  Specimen  Days, 
Whitman  descril)es  his  parentage  and  early  surroundings,  the 
si"hts  and  occupations  that  filled  his  youth,  his  wanderings,  his 
activity  during  the  CMvil  War  as  a  visitor  and  co.nfurter  of 
wounded  soldiers  in  the  hospitals  at  Washington,  and  finally  his 
rambles  and  meditations  in  the  woods  of  New  Jersey.  In  Demo- 
cratic Vistas,  he  exi)lains  his  theory  of  his  own  poetry  and  the 
relation  of  the  literature  of  the  past  and  of  the  future  to  American 
society.  Taking  the  two  books  together,  we  are  able  to  learn 
what  was  Whitman's  inspiration  and  am'oition,  what  he  thought  of 
his  country,  of  himself,  and  of  his  fimction. 

Much  of  this,  indeed,  might  have  been  gathered  from  the  poems 
by  an  attentive  reader ;  yet  it  is  an  advantage  to  have  it  all  set 
down  by  the  author  in  an  autobiograjjhical  fashion  with  eloquence, 
clearness,  and  evident  sincerity.  The  conditions  that  made 
possible  so  remarkable  a  writer,  his  personal  character,  and  his 
ideal  of  the  society  he  meant  to  describe  and  to  serve,  are  thus 
brought  vividly  before  us.  And  these  confessions  are  not  only 
interesting  to  one  who  wishes  to  understand  the  author  of  the 
Leaves  of  Grass,  but  they  are  in  themselves  of  considerable  imagi- 
native and  historical  value. 

His  parents  were  formers  in  central  Long  Island,  and  his 
early  v«- irs  were  spent  in  that  district.  The  family  seems  to 
have  L.  >.i  not  too  prosperous  and  somewhat  nomadic;  Whit- 
man himself  drifted  through  boyhood  without  much  guidance. 
We  find  him  now  at  school,  now  helping  the  laborers  at  the  farms, 
now  wandering  along  the  beaches  of  Long  Island,  finally  at 
Brooklyn,  working  in  an  apparently  desultory  way  as  a  printer, 
and  sometimes  as  a  writer  for  a  local  newspaper.  He  must  have 
read  or  heard  something,  during  this  early  period,  of  the  English 
classics  ;  his  style  often  betrays  the  deep  effect  made  upon  him 
by  the  grandiloquence  of  the  Bible,  of  Shakespeare,  and  of  Milton. 
But  his  chief  interest,  if  we  may  trust  his  account,  was  already  in 
his  own  sensations.  The  aspects  of  nature,  the  forms  and  habits 
of  animals,  the  sights  of  cities,  the  movement  and  talk  of  common 
people,  were  his  constant  delight.  His  mind  was  flooded  with 
these  images,  keenly  felt  and  often  vividly  rendered  with  bold 
strokes  of  realism  and   imagination.     Many  poets  have  had  this 


SgSS«3fei^^S5a??&ii.ii?443h'*kS*a£*»«S»»^ 


IVALT   WHITMAN 


385 


iinen  Days, 
uiings,  the 
derings,  his 
iinfurter  of 
finally  his 
In  Demo- 
try  p.nd  the 

0  American 
)le  to  learn 
:  thought  of 

1  the  poems 
;e  it  all  set 
1  eloquence, 

that  made 
ter,  and  his 
ve,  are  thus 
re  not  only 
thur  of  the 
rable  imagi- 

id,  and  his 
ly  seems  to 
idic;  Whit- 
h  guidance. 
It  the  farms, 
1,  finally  at 
IS  a  printer, 
e  must  have 
the  English 
e  upon  him 
d  of  Milton, 
is  already  in 
is  and  habits 
:  of  common 
looded  with 
d  with  bold 
ive  had  this 


faculty  to  seize  the  elementary  aspects  of  things,  but  none  has  had 
it  so  exclusively ;  with  Whitman  the  surf;ice  is  absolutely  all  and 
the  underlying  structure  is  without  interest  and  almost  without 
existence.     He  had  had  no  education,  and  his  natural  delight  in 
imbibing  sensations  had  not  been  trained  to  the  uses  of  practical 
or  theoretical  intelligence.     He  basked  in  the  sunshine  of  percep- 
tion and  wallowed  in  the  stream  of  his  own  sensibility,  as  later  at 
Camden  in  the  shallows  of  his  favorite  brook.     Kven  during  the 
war,  when  he  heard  the  "  drum-taps "  so  clearly,  he  could  only 
gaze  at  the  picturesque  and  terrible  aspects  of  the  struggle,  and 
linger  among  the  wounded  from  day  to  day  with  a  canine  dv.vo- 
tion  ;  he  could  not  be  aroused  either  to  clear  thought  or  positive 
action.    So  also  in  his  poems  ;  a  multiplicity  of  images  pass  before 
hiin  and  he  yields  himself  to  each  in  turn  with  absolute  passivity. 
But  the  world  has  no  inside  :  it  is  a  phantasmagoria  of  continuous 
visions,  vivid,  impressive,  but  monotonous  and  hard  to  remember, 
like  the  waves  of  the  sea  or  the  decorations  of  some  barbarous 
temple,  sublime  only  by  the  infinite  aggregation  of  parts.    This 
abundance  of  detail  without  organization  ;   this  wealth  of  percep- 
tion without  intelligence,  and  of  imagination  without  taste,  makes 
the  -uigularity  of  Whitman's  genius.     Full  of  sympathy  and  recep- 
tivity, with  a  wonderful  gift  of  graphic  characterization  and  an 
occasional  rare  grandeur  of  diction,  he  fills  us  with  a  sense  of  the 
individuality  and  the  universality  of  what  he  describes  —  it  is  a 
drop  in  itself,  yet  a  drop  in  the  ocean.    The  absence  of  any 
principle  of  selection,  or  of  a  sustained  style,  enables  him  to 
render  aspects  of  things  and  of  emotions  which  would  have  eluded 
a  trained  writer.     He  i:5,  therefore,  interesting  even  where  he  is 
grotesque  or  perverse.     He  is  important  in  that  he  has  accom- 
plished, by  the  sacrifice  of  almost  every  other  good  quality,  some- 
thing never  so  well  done  before.     He  has  approached  common 
life  without  bringing  in  his  mind  any  higher  standard  by  which  to 
criticise  it ;  he  has  seen  it,  not  in  contrast  to  an  ideal,  but  as  the 
expression  of  forces    more  indeterminate  and  elementary  than 
itself;  and  the  vulgar,  in  this  cosmic  setting,  has  appeared  to  him 
sublime. 

There  is  clearly  some  analogy  between  a  mass  of  images  with- 
out structure,  and  the  notion  of  an  absolute  democracy.    Whit- 

2C 


.1 


*l 


i^^illl 


i1   ''■ 


386  AMERICAN  FKOSE 

man,  inclined  by  liis  genius  and  habits  to  see  life  without  relief  or 
organization,  believed  that  his  inclination  in  this   respect  corre- 
sponded to  the  spirit  of  his  age  and  country,  and  that  nature  and 
society,  at  least  in  America,  were  constituted  after  the  fashion  of 
his  own  mind.    Iking  the  poet  of  the  average  man,  he  wished  all 
men  to  be  specimens  of  that  average,  and  being  the  poei  of  a  fluid 
nature,  he  believed  that  natuie  was  or  should  be  a  formless  flux. 
This  personal  biaa  of  Whitman's  was  further  encouraged  by  the 
actual  absence  of  notable  distinction  in  his  immediate  environ- 
ment.    Surrounded  by  ugly  things  and  common  people,  he  felt 
himself  happy,  ecstatic,  overflowing  with  a  kind  of  patriarchal  love. 
He   accordingly  came  to  think  there  was  a  spirit  of  the  New 
World  which  he  embodied  and  which  was  in  complete  opposition 
to  that  of  the  Old,  that  a  literature  upon  novel  principles  was 
needed  to  express  and  strengthen  this  American  spirit.     Democ- 
racy was  not  to  be  merely  a  constitutional  device  for  the  better 
government  of  given  nations,  not  merely  a  movement  for  the  ma- 
terial improvement  of  the  lot  of  the  lower  classes.     It  was  to  be 
a  social  and  a  moral  democracy,  and  to  involve  an  actual  equality 
among  all  men.     Whatever  kept  them  apart  and  made  it  impos- 
sible for  them  to  be  messmates  together  was  to  be  discarded. 
The  literature  of  democracy  was  to  ignore  all  extraordinary  gifts 
of  genius  or  virtue,  all  distinction  drawn  even  from  great  passions 
or  romantic  adventures.     In  Whitman's  works,  in  which  this  new 
literature  is  foreshadowed,  there  is  accordin^^ly  not  a  single  char- 
acter or  a  single  story.      His  only  hero  .i  Myself,  the  "single, 
separate  person,"  endowed  with  the  primary  impulses,  with  health, 
and  with  sensitiveness  to  the  elementary  aspects  of  nature.     The 
perfect  man  of  the  future  is  to  work  with  his  hands,  chanting  the 
poems  of  some  democratic  bard.     Women  are  to  have  as  nearly 
as  possible  the  same  character  as  men  :  the  emphasis  is  to  pass  from 
family  life  and  local  ties  to  the  friendship  of  comrades  and  the 
general  brotherhood  of  man.     Men  are  to  be  vigorous,  comforta- 
ble, sentimental,  and  irresponsible. 

This  dream  is,  of  course,  unrealized  and  unrealizable  in  America 
as  elsewhere.  Undeniably  there  are  in  America  many  suggestions 
of  such  a  society  and  such  a  national  character.  But  the  growing 
complexity  and  fixity  of  institutions  tends  to  obscure  these  traits 


'.,?¥Ste»#.'sS(i»»k«ate*^l^S^SM.'*Sji 


:im^m^Mi»iiimmse. 


out  relidf  or 
pect  corre- 
.  nature  and 
e  fashion  of 
e  wished  all 
lei  of  a  fluid 
rmless  flux, 
iged  by  the 
xte  environ- 
jple,  he  felt 
iarchal  love, 
of  the  New 
;  opposition 
inciplcs  was 
it.  Democ- 
r  the  better 

for  the  ma- 
It  was  to  be 
tual  equality 
ide  it  impos- 
e  discarded. 
)rdinary  gifts 
reat  passions 
ich  this  new 

single  char- 
the  "single, 
,  with  health, 
lature.  The 
chanting  the 
ive  as  nearly 
i  to  pass  from 
ades  and  the 
us,  comforta- 

le  in  America 
ly  suggestions 
t  the  growing 
e  these  traits 


tVA/7-    IVI/ITMAN 


387 


^&ii^e^iiiimhB«mies,(i^ 


of  a  primitive  and  crude  democracy.  What  Whitman  seized  upon 
as  the  promise  of  the  future  was  in  reality  the  survival  of  the  past. 
He  sings  the  song  of  pioneers,  but  it  is  in  the  nature  of  the 
pioneer  that  the  greater  his  success  the  quicker  must  be  his  trans- 
formation into  something  different.  When  Whitman  made  the 
initial  phase  of  society  his  ideal,  he  became  the  prophet  of  a  lost 
cause.  That  cause  was  lost  not  merely  when  wealth  and  intelli- 
gence began  to  take  shape  in  this  country,  but  it  was  lost  at  the 
very  foundation  of  the  world,  when  those  laws  of  evolution  were 
tstablished  which  Whitman,  like  Rousseau,  failed  to  understand. 
If  we  may  trust  Mr.  Herbert  Spencer,  these  laws  involve  a  passage 
from  the  homogeneous  to  the  heterogeneous,  and  a  constant 
progress  at  once  in  differentiation  and  in  organization  —  all,  in  a 
word,  that  Whitman  systematically  deprecated  or  ignored.  He  is 
surely  not  the  spokesman  of  the  tendencies  of  his  country,  although 
he  describes  some  aspects  of  its  present  condition ;  nor  does  he 
appeal  to  those  he  describes,  but  rather  to  the  dilettanti  he 
despises.  He  is  regarded  as  representative  chiefly  by  foreigners, 
who  look  for  some  grotesque  expression  of  the  genius  of  so  young 
and  prodigious  a  people. 

Fortunately,  the  political  theory  that  makes  Whitman's  princi- 
ple of  literary  prophecy  and  criticism  is  not  presented,  even  in 
his  prose  works,  bare  and  unadorned.  In  Democratic  Vistas  we 
find  it  clothed  with  something  of  the  same  poetic  passion,  and 
lighted  up  with  the  same  flashes  of  intuition,  that  we  admire  in 
the  poems.  Even  here  the  temperament  is  finer  than  the  ideas 
and  the  poet  wiser  than  the  thinker.  His  ultimate  appeal  is 
really  to  something  more  general  than  a  national  ideal.  He  speaks 
to  those  minds  and  to  those  moods  in  which  sensuality  is  touched 
with  mysticism.  When  the  intellect  is  in  abeyance,  when  we 
would  "  turn  and  live  with  animals,  they  are  so  placid  and  self- 
contained,"  when  we  are  weary  of  conscience  and  of  ambition, 
and  would  yield  ourselves  for  a  while  to  the  dream  of  sense, 
Walt  Whitman  is  a  welcome  companion.  The  images  he  arouses 
in  us,  fresh,  full  of  light  and  health  and  of  a  kind  of  frank- 
ness and  beauty,  are  prized  all  the  more  at  such  a  time  because 
they  are  not  choice,  but  drawn  perhaps  from  a  hideous  and. 
sordid  environment.     For  this  circumstance  makes  them  a  bet- 


w 


MM'- 

1^:  m 


388 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


ter  means  of  escape  from  convention  and  from  that  fatigue  and 
despair  which  hirk  not  far  beneath  the  surface  of  conven- 
tional life.  In  casting  off  with  self-assurance  and  a  sense  of 
fresh  vitality  the  distinctions  of  tradition  anr'  reason  a  man  may 
feel,  as  he  sinks  back  comfortably  to  a  lower  level  of  sense  and 
instinct,  that  he  is  returning  to  nature  or  escaping  into  the  mfinite. 
Mysticism  makes  us  proud  and  happy  to  renounce  the  work  of 
intelligence,  both  in  thought  and  in  life,  and  persuades  us  that  we 
become  divine  by  remaining  imperfecdy  human.  Whitman  gives 
a  new  expression  to  this  ancient  and  multiform  tendency.  He 
proclaims  the  cosmic  justification  of  everything  he  sees  and  of  his 

own  satyrlike  disposition. 

'  ^  George  Santavana 


fatigue  and 
of  conven- 
a  sense  of 
a  man  may 
if  sense  and 
the  infinite, 
the  work  of 
:s  us  that  we 
litman  gives 
idency.  He 
es  and  of  his 

Santayana 


WALT   WHITMAN 


THE  \vi:sT  an:)  I)i:mocracv 


389 


In  a  few  years  the  iluminion-heart  of  America  will  be  far 
inland,  toward  the  West.  Our  future  national  capital  may  not 
be  where  the  present  one  is.  It  is  possible,  nay  likely,  that  in 
less  than  fifty  years,  it  will  migrate  a  thousand  or  two  miles,  will 
be  re-founded,  and  every  thing  belonging  to  it  made  on  a  differ- 
ent plan,  original,  far  more  superb.  The  main  social,  political, 
spine-character  of  the  States  will  probably  run  along  the  Ohio, 
Missouri  and  Mississippi  rivers,  and  west  and  north  of  them, 
including  Canada.  Those  regions,  vith  the  group  of  powerful 
brothers  toward  the  Pacific,  (destined  to  the  mastership  of  that 
sea  and  its  countless  paradises  of  islands,)  will  comiiact  and 
settle  the  traits  of  America,  with  all  the  old  retain'd,  but  more 
expanded,  grafted  on  newer,  hardier,  purely  native  stock.  A 
giant  growth,  composite  from  the  rest,  getting  their  contribu- 
tion, absorbing  it,  to  make  it  more  illustrious.  From  the  north, 
intellect,  the  sun  of  things,  also  the  idea  of  unswayable  justice, 
anchor  amid  the  last,  the  wildest  tempests.  From  the  south  the 
living  soul,  the  animus  of  good  and  bad,  haughtily  admitting  no 
demonstration  but  its  own.  While  from  the  west  itself  comes 
solid  personality,  with  blood  and  brawn,  and  the  deep  quality  of 
all-accepting  fusion. 

Political  democracy,  as  it  exists  and  practically  v/orks  in  Amer- 
ica, with  all  its  threatening  evils,  supplies  a  training-school  for 
making  first-class  men.  It  is  life's  gymnasium,  not  of  good 
only,  but  of  all.  We  try  often,  though  we  fall  back  often.  A 
brave  delight,  fit  for  freedom's  athletes,  fills  these  arenas,  and 
fully  satisfies,  out  of  the  action  in  them,  irrespective  of  success. 
Whatever  we- do  not  attain,  we  at  any  rate  attain  the  experiences 
of  the  fight,  the  hardening  of  the  strong  campaign,  and  throb 
with  currents  of  .atempt  at  least.  Time  is  ample.  Let  the  vic- 
tors come  after  us.  Not  for  nothing  does  evil  play  its  part 
among  us.  Judging  from  the  main  portions  of  the  history  of  the 
world,  so  far,  justice  is  always  in  jeopardy,  peace  walks  amid 
hourly  pit-falls,  and  of  slavery,  misery,  meanness,  the  craft  of 
tyrants  and  the  credulity  of  the  populace,  in  some  of  their  pro- 


'i;  H' 


ri,! 


I '  !'J 


3 


f 


I 


390 


AMEKICAK  PROSE 


tcan  forms,  no  voice  can  at  any  time  say,  They  are  not.  The 
clouds  break  a  liitic,  and  the  sun  shines  out  —  but  soon  and  cer- 
tain the  lowering;  darkness  falls  again,  as  if  to  last  forever.  Yet 
there  is  an  immortal  courage  and  prophecy  in  every  sane  soul 
that  cannot,  must  not,  under  any  circumstances,  capitulate. 
Vive,  the  attack  —  the  perennial  assault  !  Vive,  the  unpopular 
cause  —  the  spirit  that  audaciously  aims  —  the  never-abandon'd 
efforts,  pursued  the  same  amid  opposing  proofs  and  precedents. 

\  Deniocnilic  I'islns,  1 870.     Piosi  H\>rl-s,  |)p.  222,  223.     This  extract  ami 
tliosc  foUuwiiig  are  rtpriiitcd  by  permission  of  Whitman's  literary  executors.] 


DEMOCRACY 

Dominion  strong  is  the  body's:  dominion  stronger  is  the 
mind's.  What  has  fdl'd,  and  fills  to-day  our  intellect,  our  fancy, 
furnishing  the  standards  therein,  is  yet  foreign.  The  great 
poenis,  Shakspere  included,  are  poisonous  to  the  idea  of  tne 
pride  and  dignity  of  the  common  people,  the  life-blood  of 
democracy.  The  models  of  our  literature,  as  we  get  it  from 
other  lands,  ultramarine,  have  had  their  birth  in  courts,  and  bask'd 
and  grown  in  castle  sunshine;  all  smells  of  princes'  favors.  Of 
workers  of  a  certain  sort,  we  have,  indeed,  plenty,  contributing 
after  their  kind;  many  elegant,  many  learn'd,  all  complacent. 
But  touch'd  by  the  national  test,  or  tried  by  the  standards  of 
democratic  personality,  they  wither  to  ashes.  I  say  I  have  not 
seen  a  single  writer,  artist,  lecturer,  or  what  not,  that  has  con- 
fronted the  voiceless  but  ever  erect  and  active,  pervading,  under- 
lying will  and  typic  aspiration  of  the  land,  in  a  spirit  kindred  to 
itself.  Do  you  call  those  genteel  little  creatures  American  poets? 
Do  you  term  that  perpetual,  pistareen,  paste-pot  work,  Americari 
art,  American  drama,  taste,  verse?  I  think  I  hear,  echoed  as 
from  some  mountain-top  afar  in  the  west,  the  scornful  laugh  of 
the  Genius  of  these  States. 

Democracy,  in  silence,  biding  its  time,  ponders  its  own  ideals, 
not  of  literature  and  art  only  —  not  of  men  only,  but  of  women. 
The  idea  of  the  women  of  America,  (extricated  irom  this  daze, 
this  fossil  and  unhealthy  air  which  hangs  about  the  word  lady,) 


^-imimuimiai>m^~^ 


lyALT   WIIITMAM 


391 


not.  The 
)n  and  cer- 
ever.  Yet 
t  sane  soul 
capitulate, 
unpopular 
•abandon'd 
recedents. 

IS  extract  an<l 
^  executors.] 


iger  is  the 
,  our  fancy, 

The  great 
idea  of  tne 
fe-blood  of 
get  it  from 
;,  and  bask'd 

favors.     Of 
contributing 
complacent, 
standards  of 
y  I  have  not 
liat  has  con- 
iding,  under- 
it  kindred  to 
;rican  poets? 
rk,  Americari 
r,  echoed  as 
nful  laugh  of 

:s  own  ideals, 
ut  of  women, 
om  this  daze, 
e  word  lady,^ 


develop'd,  raised  to  become  the  robust  etiuals,  workers,  and,  it 
may  be,  even  practical  and  political  deciders  with  the  men  — 
greater  than  man,  we  may  admit,  through  their  divine  maternity, 
always  their  towering,  emblematical  attribute  —  but  great,  at  any 
rate,  as  man,  in  all  departments;  or,  rather,  capable  of  being  so, 
soon  as  they  realize  it,  and  can  bring  themselves  to  give  up  toys 
and  fictions,  and  launch  forth,  as  men  do,  amid  real,  indei)en- 
dent,  stormy  life. 

'Ihen,  as  towards  our  thought's  finale,  (and,  in  that,  overarch- 
ing the  true  scholar's  lesson,)  we  have  to  say  there  can  be  no 
complete  or  epical  presentation  of  democracy  in  the  ag|,.cgate, 
or  anything  like  it,  at  this  day,  because  its  doctrines  will  only  be 
effectually  incarnated  in  anyone  branch,  when,  in  all,  their  spirit 
is  at  the  root  and  centre.  Far,  far,  indeed,  stretch,  in  distance, 
our  Vistas!  How  much  is  still  to  be  disentangled,  freed!  How 
long  it  takes  to  make  this  American  world  see  that  it  is,  in  itself, 
the  final  authority  and  reliance ! 

Did  you,  too,  ()  friend,  suppose  democracy  was  only  for  elec- 
tions, for  politics,  and  for  a  party  name?  I  say  democracy  is 
">nly  of  use  there  that  it  may  pass  on  and  come  to  its  flower  and 
fruits  in  manners,  in  the  highest  forms  of  irteraction  between 
men,  and  their  beliefs  — in  religion,  literature,  colleges,  and 
schools  —  democracy  in  all  public  and  private  life,  and  in  the 
army  and  navy.'  I  have  intimated  that,  as  a  paramount  scheme, 
it  has  yet  few  or  no  full  realizers  and  believers.  I  do  not  see, 
eithe/,  that  it  owes  any  serious  thanks  to  noted  propagandists  or 
champions,  or  has  been  essentially  help'd,  though  often  harm'd, 
by  them.  It  has  been  and  is  carried  on  by  all  the  moral  forces, 
and  by  trade,  finance,  machinery,  intercommunications,  and,  in 
fact,  by  all  the  developments'  of  history,  and  can  no  more  be 
stopp'd  than  the  tides,  or  the  earth  in  its  orbit.  Doubtless,  also, 
it  resides,  crude  and  latent,  well  down  in  the  hearts  of  the  fair 

1  The  whole  present  system  of  the  officering  and  personnel  of  the  army  and 
navy  of  these  States,  and  the  spirit  and  letter  of  their  trel)ly-aristocratic  rules 
and  regulations,  is  a  monstrous  exotic,  a  nuisance  and  revolt,  and  belong  here 
just  as  much  as  orders  of  nobility,  or  the  Pope's  council  of  cardinals.  I  say  if 
the  present  theory  of  our  army  and  navy  is  sensible  and  true,  then  the  rest  of 
America  i>  an  unmitigated  fraud. 


wi 


m>' 


392 


.t.U/:h'll.tX   /'A'OSF. 


avi"r:ij;c  of  the  Ameri(  an  horn  people,  mainly  in  the  agricn'tural 
rL^ions.  Uiit  it  is  not  ytt,  there  or  anywhere,  tiic  fully  icceiv'd, 
the  fervid,  the  absolute  faith. 

1  submit,  therefore,  that  the  fruition  of  tiemocrai  y,  on  aught 
like  a  urand  scale,  resides  altogether  in  the  future.  As,  under 
any  profouml  and  comjirehensive  view  of  the  gorgeous-tomposite 
feudal  world,  we  see  in  i',  through  the  long  ages  and  cycles  of 
ages,  the  results  of  a  deep,  integral,  human  and  divine  principle, 
or  fountain,  from  which  issued  laws,  ecclesia,  manners,  insti- 
tutes, costumes,  personalities,  poems,  (hitherto  une(piall'd,  ) 
faithfully  partaking  of  their  source,  and  indeed  only  arising 
either  to  betoken  it,  or  to  furnish  parts  of  that  varied-flowing 
display,  whose  centre  was  one  anil  absolute  —  so,  long  ages  hence, 
shall  the  ilue  historian  or  critic  make  at  least  an  equal  retrospect, 
an  equal  history  for  ihe  democratic  princi|)le.  It  too  must  be 
adorn'd,  credited  with  its  results  —  then,  when  it,  with  imperial 
power,  through  amplest  time,  has  dominated  mankind  —  has 
been  the  source  and  test  of  all  the  moral,  esthetic,  social,  politi- 
cal, and  religious  expressions  and  institutes  of  the  civilized 
world  —  has  begotten  them  in  spirit  and  in  form,  and  has  car- 
ried them  to  its  own  unprecedented  heights  —  has  had,  (it  is 
possible,)  monastics  and  ascetics,  more  numerous,  more  devout 
than  the  monks  and  priests  of  all  previous  creeds  —  has  sway'd 
the  ages  with  a  breadth  and  rectitude  tallying  Natiire's  own  — 
has  fashion'd,  systematized,  and  triumphantly  finish'd  and  car- 
ried out,  in  its  own  interest,  and  with  unparallel'd  success,  a  nc 
earth  and  a  new  man. 

Thus  we  presume  to  write,  as  it  were,  upon  things  that  exist 
not,  and  travel  by  maps  yet  unmade,  and  a  blank.  But  the 
throes  of  bjrth  are  upon  us;  and  we  have  something  of  this 
advantage  in  stasonsof  strong  formations,  doubts,  suspense  —  for 
then  the  afflatus  of  such  themes  haply  may  fail  upon  us,  more  or 
less;  and  then,  hot  from  surrounding  war  and  revolution,  our 
speech,  though  without  polish'd  coherence,  and  a  failure  by  the 
standard  called  criticism,  comes  forth,  real  at  least  as  the 
lightnings. 

And  may-b«  we,  these  days,  have,  too,  our  own  reward  —  (for 
there  are  yet  some,  in  all  lands,  worthy  to  be  so  encouraged.) 


'^*^'SSi£iMW!i^gefmmr 


agricui'.tural 
Hy-icceiv'd, 

( y,  on  alight 
As,  uiulcr 
us  composite 
iiid  cycles  of 
ne  principle, 
nners,   insti- 
unecniall'd,  ) 
only  arising 
aried-flowing 
g  ages  liencc, 
al  retrospect, 
too  must  be 
with  imperial 
ankind  —  has 
social,  politi- 
the  civilized 
,  and  has  car- 
is  had,  (it   is 
,  more  devout 
—  has  sway'd 
ilure's  own  — 
sh'd  and  car- 
success,  a  ne' 

ngs  that  exist 
ank.  But  the 
ething  of  this 
suspense  —  for 
on  us,  more  or 
evolution,  our 
failure  by  the 
;   least   as  the 

I  reward  —  (lor 
0  encouraged.) 


tyA/.r  WHITMAN 


393 


Though  not  for  us  the  joy  of  entering  at  the  last  the  conquer'd 
city  — not  ours  the  chance  ever  to  see  with  our  own  eyes  the 
peerless  power  and  si)lendid  cilat  of  the  democratic  principle, 
arriv'd  at  meridian,  filling  the  world  with  effulgence  and  majesty 
far  beyond  those  of  past  history's  kings,  or  all  dynastic  sway  — 
there  is  yet,  to  whoever  is  eligible  among  us,  the  prophetic  vision, 
the  joy  of  being  toss'd  in  the  brave  turmoil  of  these  times  — the 
promulgation  and  the  path,  obedient,  lowly  reverent  to  the  voice, 
the  gesture  of  the  god,  or  holy  ghost,  which  others  see  not,  hear 
not  —  with  the  proud  consciousness  that  amid  whatever  clouds, 
seductions,  or  heart-wearying  postponements,  we  have  never 
deserted,  never  despair'd,  never  abandon'd  the  faith. 

[DemoaalU  I'islas.     Prose  Works,  pp.  225-227.] 


AMERICAN   LITERATURE 

America  demands  a  poetry  that  is  bold,  modern,  and  all-sur- 
rounding and  kosmical,  as  she  is  herself.  It  must  in  no  respect 
ignore  science  or  the  modern,  but  inspire  itself  with  science  and 
the  modern.  It  must  bend  its  vision  toward  the  future  more  than 
the  past.  Like  America,  it  must  extricate  itself  from  even  the 
greatest  models  of  the  past,  and,  while  courteous  to  them,  must 
have  entire  faith  in  itself,  and  the  products  of  its  own  democratic 
spirit  only.  Like  her,  it  must  place  in  the  van,  and  hold  up  at 
all  hazards,  the  banner  of  the  divine  pride  of  man  in  himself, 
(the  radical  foundation  of  the  new  religion.)  Long  enough  have 
the  People  been  listening  to  poems  in  which  common  humanity, 
deferential,  bends  low,  humiliated,  acknowledging  superiors. 
But  America  listens  to  no  such  poems.  Erect,  inflated,  and 
fully  self-esteeming  be  the  chant;  and  then  America  will  listen 
with  pleased  ears. 

Nor  may  the  genuine  gold,  the  gems,  when  brought  to  light  at 
last,  be  probably  usher'd  forth  from  any  of  the  quarters  currently 
counted  on.  To-day,  doubtless,  the  infant  genius  of  American 
poetic  expression,  (eluding  those  highly-refined  imported  and 
gilt-edged  themes,  and  sentimental  and  butterfly  flights,  pleasant 
to  orthodox  publishers  —  causing  tender  "pasms  in  the  coteries, 


394 


AMERICAN  PKOSE 


i'  '«! 


liM'  ' 


and  warriintcd  not  to  chafe  the  sensitive  niticle  of  the  most  ex- 
(liiisilely  artificial  gossamer  delicacy,)  lie-,  sleeping  far  away, 
happily  unrccognixed  and  uiiinjiir'd  by  the  coteries,  the  art- 
writers,  the  talkers  and  critics  of  the  saloons,  or  the  lecturers  in 
the  colleges  —  lies  sleeping,  aside,  unrccking  itself,  in  some 
western  idiom,  or  native  Michigan  or  Tennessee  repartee,  or 
stump-speech  —  or  in  Kentucky  or  Georgia,  or  the  Carolinas  — 
or  in  some  slang  or  local  song  or  allusion  of  the  Manhattan,  Hos- 
ton,  I'hiladelphia  or  Haltimore  mechanic  —  or  up  in  the  Maine 
woods  —  or  off  in  the  hut  of  the  California  miner,  or  crossing  the 
Rocky  mountains,  or  along  the  Pacific  railroad  —  or  on  the 
breasts  of  the  young  farmers  of  the  northwest,  or  t!anada,  or 
boatmen  of  the  lakes.  Riule  and  coarse  nursing-beds,  these; 
but  only  from  such  beginnings  and  stocks,  indigenous  here,  may 
haply  arrive,  be  grafitd,  and  sjmMit,  in  time,  flowers  of  genuine 
American  aroma,  and  fruits  truly  and  fully  our  own. 

I  say  it  were  a  standing  disgrace  to  these  States  —  I  say  it  were 
a  disgrace  to  any  nation,  distinguish'd  above  others  by  the  variety 
and  vastness  of  its  territories,  its  materials,  its  inventive  activity, 
and  the  splendid  practicality  of  its  people,  not  to  rise  and  soar 
above  others  also  in  its  original  styles  in  literature  and  art,  and 
its  own  supply  of  intellectual  and  esthetic  masterpieces,  arche- 
typal, and  consistent  with  itself.  I  know  not  a  land  except  ours 
that  has  not,  to  some  extent,  however  small,  made  its  title  clear. 
The  Scotch  have  their  bcjrn  ballads,  subtly  expressing  their  past 
and  present,  and  expressing  character.  The  Irish  have  theirs. 
England,  Italy,  France,  Spain,  theirs.  What  has  America? 
With  exhaustless  mines  of  the  richest  ore  of  epic,  lyric,  tale, 
time,  picture,  &c.,  in  the  Four  Years'  War;  with,  indeed,  I 
sometimes  think,  the  richest  masses  of  material  ever  afforded  a 
nation,  more  variegated,  and  on  a  larger  scale  —  the  first  sign  of 
proportionate,  native,  imaginative  Soul,  and  first-class  works  to 
match    is,  (I  cannot  too  often  repeat,)  so  far  wanting. 

Lori4  ere  the  second  centennial  arrives,  there  will  be  some 
forty  to  fifty  great  States,  among  them  Canada  and  Cuba.  When 
the  present  century  closes,  our  population  will  be  sixty  or  seventy 
millions.  The  Pacific  will  be  ours,  and  the  Atlantic  mainly  ours. 
There  will  be  daily  electric  communication  with  every  part  of  the 


\ 

•■^r- 


■<^^uS.maims^i£i^.^tS!m^im»mii*i^mmm,- 


.•.■Ja«t'i-»-*.,./< 


he  moRt  ex- 
;  far  away, 
js,  the  art- 
lecturers  in 
(,  in  some 
repartee,  or 
Carolinas  — 
hattan,  Hos- 
1  the  Maine 
crossing  the 

-  or  on   the 
(!anada,  or 

beds,  these; 
lis  here,  may 
i  of  genuine 

I  say  it  were 
)y  the  variety 
tive  activity, 
rise  and  soar 
and  art,  and 
lieces,  arche- 
l  except  ours 
ts  title  clear, 
ing  their  past 
have  theirs, 
las  America? 
,  lyric,  tale, 
;h,   indeed,  I 
'cr  afforded  a 
e  first  sign  of 
lass  works  to 

will  be  some 
Cuba.  When 
xty  or  seventy 

-  mainly  ours, 
•ry  part  of  the 


/K.//,y   WHITMAN 


395 


globe.  What  an  age!  What  a  land!  Where,  elsewhere,  one  ho 
great?  The  individuality  of  one  nation  must  then,  as  always,  lead 
the  world.  Can  there  be  any  doubt  who  the  leader  ought  to  be? 
Hear  in  uiind,  though,  that  nothing  less  than  t'le  mightiest  origi- 
nal non  subortiinatcd  S<»ui,  has  ever  really,  gloriously  led,  or  ever 
can  lead.      (This  Soul  —  its  other  name,    in  these  Vistas,    is 

l.llKR.Vll  HI.) 

\_Dimo(nUi(  Viitat.     Proa  Works,  pj).  245-247.] 


A   NICHT    BATTLE 

But  it  was  t!ie  tug  of  Saturday  evening,  and  through  the  night 
and  Sunday  morning,  I  wanted  to  make  a  special  note  of.  It 
was  largely  in  the  woods,  and  (juitc  a  general  engagement.  The 
night  was  very  pleasant,  at  times  the  moon  siiining  out  full  and 
.lear,  all  Nature  so  calm  in  itself,  tl.c  early  summer  grass  so  rich, 
and  foliage  of  the  trees  — yet  there  the  battle  raging,  and  many 
good  fellows  lying  helpless,  with  new  accessions  to  them,  and 
every  minute  amid  the  rattle  of  muskets  and  crash  of  cannon, 
(for  tliere  was  an  artillery  contest  too),  the  red  life-blood  oozing 
out  from  heads  or  trunks  or  limbs  upon  that  green  and  dew-cool 
grass.  Patches  of  the  woods  take  fire,  and  several  of  the 
wounded,  unable  to  move,  are  consumed  —  quite  large  spaces 
are  swept  over,  burning  the  dead  also  —  some  of  the  m^-n  have 
their  hair  and  beards  singed  —  sohk,  burns  on  their  faces  and 
hands  —  others  holes  burnt  in  their  clothing  The  flashes  of  fire 
from  the  cannon,  the  quick  flaring  flames  and  smoke,  and  the 
immense  roar  —  the  musketry  so  general,  the  light  nearly  bright 
enough  for  each  sidj  to  see  the  other — the  crashing,  tramping 
of  men  — the  yelling  —  close  quarters  —  we  htai  the  secesh  yells 
—  our  men  cheer  loudly  back,  especially  if  Hooker  is  in  sight  — 
hand  to  hand  conflicts,  each  side  stands  up  to  it,  brave,  deter- 
min'd  as  demons,  they  often  charge  upon  us  —  a  thousand  deeds 
are  done  worth  to  write  newer  greater  poems  on  — and  still  the 
woods  on  fire  — still  many  are  not  only  scorch'd  —  too  many, 
unable  to  move,  arc  burn'd  to  death. 

Then  the  camps  of  the  wounded  —  O  heavens,  what  scene  is 


.^''^ife&fc. 


r.fe. 


396 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


Itti 


this?  —  is  this  indeed  humanity  —  these  butchers'  shambles? 
There  are  several  of  them.  There  they  lie,  in  the  largest,  in 
an  open  space  in  the  woods,  from  200  to  300  poor  fellows  —  the 
groans  and  screams  —  the  odor  of  blood,  mixed  with  the  fresh 
scent  of  the  night,  the  grass,  the  trees  —  that  slaughter-house!  O 
well  is  it  their  mothers,  their  sisters  cannot  see  them  —  cannot 
conceive,  and  never  conceiv'd,  these  things.  One  man  is  shot 
by  a  shell,  both  in  the  arm  and  leg —  both  are  amputated  —  there 
lie  the  rejected  members.  Some  have  their  legs  blown  off  — 
some  bullets  thror.gh  the  breast  —  some  indescribably  horrid 
wounds  in  the  face  or  head,  all  mutilated,  sickening,  torn, 
gouged  out  —  some  in  the  abdomen  —  some  mere  boys  —  many 
rebels,  badly  hurt  — they  take  their  regular  turns  with  the  rest, 
just  the  same  as  any  —  the  surgeons  use  them  just  the  same. 
Such  is  the  camp  of  the  wounded  —  such  a  fragment,  a  reflection 
afar  off  of  the  bloody  scene  —  while  over  all  the  clear,  large 
moon  comes  out  at  times  softly,  quietly  shining.  Amid  the 
woods,  that  scene  of  flitting  souls  —  amid  the  crack  and  crash 
and  yelling  sounds  —  the  impalpable  perfume  of  the  woods  — 
and  yet  the  pungent,  stifling  smoke  —  the  radiance  of  the  moon, 
looking  from  heaven  at  intervals  so  placid  —  the  sky  so  heavenly 

—  the  clear-obscure  up  there,  those  buoyant  upper  oceans  —  a 
few  large  placid  stars  beyond,  coming  silently  and  languidly  out, 
and  then  disappearing  —  the  melancholy,  draperied  night  above, 
around.  And  there,  upon  the  roads,  the  fields,  and  in  those 
woods,  that  contest,  never  one  more  desperate  in  any  age  or  land 

—  both  parties  now  in  force  —  masses  —  no  fancy  battle,  no  serai- 
play,  but  fierce  and  savage  demons  fighting  there  —  courage  and 
scorn  of  death  the  rule,  exceptions  almost  none. 

What  history,  I  say,  can  ever  give  —  for  who  can  know  —  the 
mad,  determin'd  tussle  of  the  armies,  in  all  their  separate  large 
and  little  squads  —  as  this  —  each  steep'd  from  crown  to  toe  in 
desperate,  mortal  purports?  Who  know  thi>  conflict,  hand-to- 
hand —  the  many  conflicts  in  the  dark,  those,  shadowy-tangled, 
flashing  moonbeam'd  woods  —  the  writhing  groups  and  squads  — 
the  cries,  the  din,  the  cracking  guns  and  pistols  —  the  distant 
cannon  —  the  cheers  and  calls  and  threats  and  awful  music  of  the 
oaths  —  the  indescribable  mix  —  the  officers'  orders,  persuasions, 


i;^ii*i>"^w»«^i?*o.-,s**«*Mi#«.<»«»aiai^^ 


1 


,'    shambles? 
e  largest,   in 
'ellows  —  the 
ith  the  fresh 
er-house !    O 
em  —  cannot 
man  is  shot 
tated  —  there 
blown  off  — 
bably   horrid 
cening,   torn, 
boys  —  many 
ivith  the  rest, 
ist  the  same, 
t,  a  reflection 
;  clear,   large 
;.     Amid  the 
ck  and  crash 
the  woods  — 
of  the  moon, 
;y  so  heavenly 
=T  oceans  —  a 
languidly  out, 
i  night  above, 
and  in  those 
ly  age  or  land 
attle,  no  serai- 

—  courage  and 

m  know  —  the 
separate  large 
rown  to  toe  in 
flict,  hand-to- 
idowy-tangled, 
and  squads  — 

—  the  distant 
i\  music  of  the 
•s,  persuasions, 


lV.^/.r   W/HTMAN 


397 


encouragements  —  the  devils  fully  rous'd  in  human  hearts  —  the 
strong  shout,  Charge,  men,  charge  —  the  flash  of  the  naked  sword, 
and  rolling  flame  and  smoke?  And  still  the  broken,  clear  and 
clouded  heaven  —  and  still  again  the  moonlight  pouring  silvery 
soft  its  radiant  patches  over  all.  Who  paint  the  scene,  the  sud- 
den partial  panic  of  the  afternoon,  at  dusk?  Who  paint  the 
irrepressible  advance  of  the  second  division  of  the  Third  corps, 
under  Hooker  himself,  suddenly  order'd  up  —  those  rapid-filing 
phantoms  through  the  woods?  Who  show  what  moves  there  in 
the  shadows,  fluid  and  firm  —  to  save,  (and  it  did  save,)  the 
army's  name,  perhaps  the  nation?  as  there  the  veterans  hold  the 
field.  (Brave  Berry  falls  not  yet  —  but  death  has  mark'd  him  — 
soon  he  falls.) 

[From  Specimen  Days  and  Collect,  1882, -'A  Night  Battle,  ovfir  a  Week 
since."     Prose  Works,  pp.  34-36,] 


UNNAMED   REMAINS  THE   BRAVEST   SOLDIER 

Of  scenes  like  these,  I  say,  who  writes  —  whoe'er  can  write  the 
story  ?  Of  many  0  score  —  aye,  thousands,  north  and  south,  of  un- 
writ  heroes,  unknown  heroisms,  incredible,  impromptu,  first-class 
desperations  —  who  tells?  No  history  ever  —  no  poem  sings,  no 
music  sounds,  those  bravest  men  of  all  —  those  deeds.  No  for- 
mal general's  report,  nor  book  in  the  library,  nor  column  in  the 
paper,  embalms  the  bravest,  north  or  south,  east  or  west.  Un- 
named, unknown,  remain,  and  still  remain,  the  bravest  soldiers. 
Our  manliest  —  our  boys  —  our  hardy  darlings;  no  picture  gives 
them.  Likely,  the  typic  one  of  them  (standing,  no  doubt,  for 
hundreds,  thousands,)  crawls  aside  to  some  bush-clump,  or  ferny 
tiift,  on  receiving  his  death-shot  —  there  sheltering  a  little  while, 
soaking  roots,  grass  and  soil,  with  red  blood  —  the  battle  ad- 
vances, retreats,  flits  from  the  scene,  sweeps  by  —  and  there, 
haply  with  pain  and  suffering  (yet  less,  far  less,  than  is  sup- 
posed,) the  last  lethargy  winds  like  a  serpent  round  him  —  the 
eyes  glaze  in  death  —  none  recks  —  perhaps  the  burial-si]uads,  in 
truce,  a  week  afterwards,  search   not  the  secluded  spot  —  and 


' 


398 


AM  URIC  AN  PROSE 


^i.s 


there,  at  last,  the  Bravest  Soldier  crumbles  in  mother  earth,  un- 
buried  and  unknown. 

[From    specimen    Days  and  Colled,  "  Unnamed    Remains  the   Bravest 
Soldier."     J'rose  Works,  p.  36.] 

ENTERING   A   LONG    FARM-LANE 

As  every  man  has  his  hobby-liking,  mine  is  for  a  real  farm- 
lane  fenced  by  old  chestnut-rails  gray-green  with  dabs  of  moss 
and  lichen,  copious  weeds  and  briers  growing  in  spots  athwart 
the  heaps  of  stray-pick'd  stones  at  the  fence  bases  — irregular 
])aths  worn  between,  and  horse  .md  cow  tracks  — all  character- 
istic accompaniments  marking  and  scenting  the  neighborhood  in 
their  seasons  — apple-tree  blossoms  in  forward  April  -  rigs,  poul- 
try, a  field  of  August  buckwheat,  and  in  another  the  long  Happing 
tassels  of  maize  —  and  so  to  the  pond,  the  expansion  of  the  creek, 
the  secluded-beautiful,  with  young  and  old  trees,  and  such  recesses 
and  vistas. 

[From  specimen  Days  ami  Collect,  "  Entering  a  Long  Farm- Lane."     Prose 
IVorks,  p.  83.] 


MANHATTAN   FROM   THE    BAY 

June  25.  —  Returned  to  New  York  last  night.     Out  to-day  on 
the  waters  for  a  sail  in  the  wide  bay,  southeast  of  S'  ..en  island 

—  a  rough,  tossing  tide,  and  a  free  sight  — the  lo..g  stretch  of 
Sandy  Hook,  the  highlands  of  Navesink,  and  the  many  vessels 
outward  and  inward  bound.  We  came  up  through  the  midst  of 
all,  in  the  full  sun.  I  especially  enjoy'd  the  last  hour  or  tvv 
A  moderate  sea-breeze  had  set  in;  yet  over  the  city,  and  t'.f 
waters  adjacent,  was  a  thin  haze,  concealing  nothing,  only  adding 
to  the  beauty.  From  my  point  of  view,  as  I  write  amid  the  soft 
breeze,  with  a  sea-temperature,  surely  nothing  on  earth  of  its 
kind  can  go  beyond  this  show.  To  the  left  the  North  river  with 
its  far  vista  — nearer,  three  or  four  warships,  anchor'd  peacefully 

—  the  Jersey  side,  the  banks  of  Weehawken,  the  I^aPsades,  and 
the  gradually  receding  blue,  lost  in  the  distance  — to  the  right 


earth,  un- 


the   Bravest 


I  real  farm- 
bs  of  moss 
lOts  athwart 
—  irregular 
I  character- 
iborhood  in 
■  I  igs,  poul- 
)ng  Happing 
)f  the  creek, 
uch  recesses 

Lane."     Proie 


lit  to-day  on 
'i  ..en  island 
ig  stretch  of 
nany  vessels 
the  midst  of 
hour  or  tV' 
ity,  and  t'.. 
only  adding 
mid  the  soft 
earth  of  its 
th  river  with 
'd  peacefully 
al'sades,  and 
-to  the  right 


WALT    WHITMAN 


399 


the  Kast  river  —  the  mast-hemm'd  shores  —  the  grand  obelisk- 
like towers  of  the  bridge,  one  on  either  side,  in  haze,  yet  plainly 
defin'd,  giant  brothers  twain,  throwing  free  graceful  interlinking 
loops  high  across  the  tumbled  tumultuous  current  below  —  (the 
tide  is  just  changing  to  its  ebb)  —  the  broad  water-spread  every- 
where crowded  —  no,  not  crowded,  but  thick  as  stars  in  the  sky 
—  with  all  sorts  and  sizes  of  sail  and  steam  vessels,  plying  ferry- 
boats, arriving  and  departing  coasters,  great  ocean  Dons,  iron- 
black,  modern,  magnificent  in  size  and  power,  fill'd  with  their 
incalculable  value  of  human  life  and  precious  merchandise  — 
with  here  and  there,  above  all,  those  daring,  careening  things  of 
grace  and  wonder,  those  white  and  shaded  swift-darting  (ish-birds, 
(I  wonder  if  shore  or  sea  elsewhere  can  outvie  them,)  ever  with 
their  slanting  spars,  and  fierce,  pure,  hawk-like  beauty  and  mo- 
tion—  first-class  New  York  sloop  or  schooner  yachts,  sailing,  this 
fine  day,  the  free  sea  in  a  good  wind.  And  rising  out  of  the 
midst,  tall-topt,  ship-hemm'd,  modern,  American,  yet  strangely 
oriental,  V-shaped  Manhattan,  with  its  compact  mass,  its  spires, 
its  cloud-touching  edifices  group'd  at  the  centre  —  the  green  of 
the  trees,  and  all  the  white,  brown  and  gray  of  the  architecture 
well  blended,  as  I  see  it,  under  a  miracle  of  limpid  sky,  deli- 
cious light  of  heaven  above,  and  June  haze  on  the  surface  below. 

[I'rom  Spedmen  Days  and  Colled,  "Manhattan  from  the  Bay."     Proit 
Works,  pp.  ii6,  117.] 


HUMAN   AND   HEROIC   NEW   YORK 

The  general  subjective  view  of  New  York  and  Brooklyn  —  (will 
not  the  time  hasten  when  the  two  shall  be  municipally  united  in 
one,  and  named  Manhattan?)  —  what  I  may  call  the  human  inte- 
rior and  exterior  of  these  great  seething  oceanic  populations,  as 
I  get  it  in  this  visit,  is  to  me  best  of  all.  After  an  absence  of 
many  years,  (I  went  away  at  the  outbreak  of  the  secession  war, 
and  have  never  been  back  to  stay  since,)  again  I  resume  with 
curiosity  the  crowds,  the  streets  I  knew  so  well,  Broadway,  the 
ferries,  the  west  side  of  the  city,  democratic  Bowery  —  human 
appearances  and  manners  as  seen  in  all  these,  and  along  the 


S    \    .L 


f  f'^ 


'11 


400 


AMERICAN  PKCSE 


wharves,   and  in  the  perpetual  travel  of  the  horse-cars,  or  the 
crowded  excursion  steamers,  or  in  Wall  and  Nassau  streets  by 
day  —  in  the  places  of  amusement  at  night  — bubbling  and  whirl- 
ing and  moving  like  its  own  environment  of  waters  —  endless 
humanity  in  all  phases  —  Brooklyn  also  — taken  in  for  the  last 
three  weeks.     No  need  to  specify  minutely  —  enough  to  say  that 
(making  all  allowances  for  the  shadows  and  side-streaks  of  a  mill- 
lon-headedcity)  the  brief  total  of  the  impressions,  the  human 
qualities,  of  these  vast  cities,  is  to  me  comforting,  even  heroic, 
beyond  statement.     Alertness,  generally  fine  physique,  clear  eyes 
that  look  straight  at  you,  a  singular  combination  of  reticence  and 
self-possession,  with  good  nature  and  friendliness  — a  prevailing 
range  of  according  manners,  taste  and  intellect,  surely  beyond 
any  elsewhere  upon  earth  — and  a  palpable  outcropping  of  that 
personal  comradeship  I  look  forward  to  as  the  subtest,  strongest 
future  hold  of  this  many-iiem'd  Union  — are  not  only  constantly 
visible  here  in  these  mighty  channels  of  men,  but  they  form  the 
rule  and  average.     To-day,  I  should  say  — defiant  of  cynics  and 
pessimists,  and  with  a  full  knowledge  of  all  their  exceptions  — 
an  appreciative  and  i)erceptive  study  of  the  current  humanity  of 
New  York  gives  the  directest  proof  yet  of  successful  Democracy, 
and  of  the  solution  of  that  paradox,  the  eligibility  of  the  free  and 
fully  developed  individual  with  the  paramount  aggregate.     In  old 
age,  lame  and  sick,  pondering  for  years  on  many  a  doubt  and 
danger  for  this  republic  of  ours  — fully  aware  of  all  that  can  be 
said  on  the  other  side  —  1  find  in  this  visit  to  New  York,  and  the 
daily  contact  and  rapport  with  its  myriad  people,  on  the  scale  of 
the  oceans  and  tides,  the  best,  most  effective  medicine  my  soul 
has  yet  partaken  —  the  grandest  physical  habitat  and  surroundings 
of  land  and  water  the  globe  affords  —  namely,  Manhattan  island 
and  Brooklyn,  which  the  future  shall  join  in  one  city —  city  of 
superb  democracy,  amid  superb  surroundings. 

[From   S/>enm,n  Days  and  Colled,  "  Human   and    Heroic    New    York." 
Prose  Works,  pp.  117,  118.J 


0 


i: 


■  "--^^^fi^^ 


MM 


.'4  ' 


1  , 


-cars,  or  the 
ui  sueets  by 
r>g  and  whirl- 
srs  —  endless 
I  for  the  last 
•h  to  say  that 
;iks  of  a  niill- 
i,  the  human 

even  heroic, 
lie,  clear  eyes 
reticence  and 
-a  prevailing 
urely  beyond 
iping  of  that 
est,  strongest 
ily  constantly 
hey  form  the 
af  cynics  and 
exceptions  — 
t  humanity  of 
il  Democracy, 
f  the  free  and 
jgate.     In  old 

a  doubt  and 
ill  that  can  be 
York,  and  the 
in  the  scale  of 
licine  my  soul 
1  surroundings 
nhattan  island 
city  —  city  of 

lie   New   York." 


pyAlT   WHITMAN  4^1 


AMERICA'S  CHAKACTIiKlSTIC   LANDSCAPE 

Speaking  generally  as  to  the  capacity  and  sure  future  destiny  of 
that  plain  and  prairie  area  (larger  than  any  European  kingdom) 
it  is  the  inexhaustible  land  of  wheat,  maize,  wool,  flax,  coal, 
iron,  beef  and  pork,  butter  and  cheese,  apples  and  grapes  — land 
of  ten  million  virgin  farms  — to  the  eye  at  present  wild  and  un- 
productive—yet experts  say  that  upon  it  when  irrigated  may 
easily  be  grown  enough  wheat  to  feed  the  world.  Then  as  to 
scenery  (giving  my  own  thought  and  feeling,)  while  I  know  the 
standard  claim  is  that  Yosemite,  Niagara  falls,  the  upper  Yellow- 
stone and  the  like,  afford  the  greatest  natural  shows,  I  am  not  so 
sure  but  the  Prairies  and  Plains,  while  less  stunning  at  first  sight, 
last  longer,  fill  the  esthetic  sense  fuller,  precede  all  the  rest,  and 
make  North  America's  characteristic  landscape. 

Indeed  through  the  whole  of  this  journey,  with  all  its  shows 
and  varieties,  what  most  impressed  me,  and  will  longest  remain 
with  me,  are  these  same  prairies.  Day  after  day,  and  night  after 
night,  to  my  eyes,  to  all  my  senses  —  the  esthetic  one  most  of  all 
—  they  silently  and  broadly  unfolded.  Even  their  simplest  sta- 
tistics are  sublime. 

[From  Specimut  Days  and  Collect,  "  America's  Characteristic  Landscape." 
Prose  Works,  p.  150.] 


THE  SILENT  GENERAL 

Sept.  28,  '79. —  So  General  Grant,  after  circumambiating  the 
world,  has  arrived  home  again  — landed  in  San  Francisco  yester- 
day, from  the  ship  City  of  Tokio  from  Japan.  What  a  man  he 
is!  what  a  history  !  what  an  illustration  — his  life —  of  the  capaci- 
ties of  that  American  individuality  common  to  us  all.  Cynical 
critics  are  wondering  "what  the  people  can  see  in  Grant"  to 
make  such  a  hubbub  about.  They  aver  (and  it  is  no  doubt  true) 
that  he  has  hardly  the  average  of  our  day's  literary  and  scholastic 
culture,  and  absolutely  no  pronounc'd  genius  or  conventional 
eminence  of  any  sort.     Correct:  but  he  proves  how  an  average 

2U 


% 


403 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


western  farmer,  meclianic,  boatman,  carried  by  tides  of  circum- 
stances, perhaps  caprices,  into  a  position  of  incredible  military 
or  civic  responsibilities,  (history  has  presented  none  more  trying, 
no  born  monarch's,  no  mark  more  shining  for  attack  or  envy,) 
may  steer  his  way  fitly  and  steadily  through  them  all,  carrying 
the  country  and  himself  with  credit  year  after  year  —  command 
over  a  million  armed  men  —  fight  more  than  fifty  heavy  battles  — 
rule  for  eight  years  a  land  larger  than  all  the  kingdoms  of  Europe 
combined  — and  then,    retiring,    quietly  (with  a  cigar  in   his 
mouth)  make  the  promenade  of  the  whole  world,    through    its 
courts  and  coteries,  and  kings  and  czars  and  mikados,  and  splen- 
didest  glitters  and  etiquettes,  as  phlegmatically  as  he  ever  walk'd 
the  portico  of  a  Missouri  hotel  after  dinner.     I  say  all  this  is 
what  people  like— and   I  am  sure  I  like  it.     Seems  to  me  it 
transcends  Plutarch.     How  these  old  Greeks,  indeed,  would  have 
seized  on  him!     A  mere  plain  man  — no  art,  no  poetry  — only 
practical  sense,  ability  to  do,  or  try  his  best  to  do,  what  devolv'd 
upon  him.     A  common  trader,  money-maker,  tanner,  farmer  of 
Illinois  — general  for  the  republic,   in  its  terrific  struggle  with 
itself,  in  the  war  of  attempted  secession  — President  following, 
(a  task  of  peace,  more  difficult  than  the  war  itself )  — nothing 
heroic,  as  the  authorities  put  it  —  and  yet  the  greatest  hero.     The 
gods,  the  destinies,  seem  to  have  concentrated  upon  him. 


[From  Spedmen  Days  and  Colled,  "The  Silent  General.' 
PP-  "S3.  >54-] 


Prose  IVorks, 


is  of  circnin- 
lible  military 

more  trying, 
ack  or  envy,) 

all,  carrying 
:  —  command 
avy  battles  — 
ms  of  Europe 

cigar  in  his 
through  its 
3s,  and  splen- 
ic ever  vvalk'd 
say  all  this  is 
ems  to  me  it 
d,  would  have 
poetry  —  only 
what  devolv'd 
ler,  farmer  of 

struggle  with 
;nt  following, 
;lf)  —  nothing 
st  hero.  The 
n  him. 

"    Prose  Works, 


ULYSSES   S.  GRANT 

[Iliram  Ulysses  Grant  was  born  at  Puint  Pleasant,  in  southern  Ohio,  April 
27,  1822.  His  father,  Jcbse  K.  C'.rant,  was  a  young  tanner  of  good  family, 
who  soon  afterward  set  up  in  l)usii)ess  for  himself  in  Georgetown,  Ohio. 
Grant  spent  the  first  seventeen  years  of  his  life  in  and  about  Georgetown. 
He  was  appointed  to  West  Point  in  1839,  and  was  entered  by  mistake  as 
Ulysses  S.Grant.  He  graduated  at  the  middle  of  his  class  in  1843.  He 
passed  through  the  Mexican  war,  serving  gallantly,  being  twice  breveted  for 
distinguished  action.  He  served  six  years  at  northern  posts,  resigning,  in 
1854,  from  Huml)oldt  Hay,  Cal.  He  reentered  service  as  colonel  of 
the  Twenty-first  Illinois  Volunteers,  in  1861,  and  in  four  years  rose  to  the  sole 
command  of  the  armies  of  the  United  States.  He  was  elected  President  in 
1868,  and  served  two  terms.  He  passed  round  the  world  in  1877-79,  receiv- 
ing the  greatest  honors  ever  shown  to  an  American.  He  allowed  his  name 
to  stand  for  nomination  the  third  time,  and  was  defeated  in  the  Convention  of 
1880.  He  moved  to  New  York,  entered  business,  and  was  dragged  down  to 
ruin  by  the  failure  of  the  firm  with  which  he  was  connected.  Finding  him- 
self old,  poor,  and  attacked  by  incurable  cancer  in  the  throat,  he  set  himself 
to  work  to  write  a  book  which  should  tell  the  story  of  his  life  and  shield  his 
wife  from  want.  He  died  before  the  book,  his  Personal  Memoirs,  was  entirely 
finished,  on  July  23,  1885] 

It  was  reserved  for  Ulysses  Grant  in  the  last  year  of  his  life  to 
amaze  his  friends  by  writing  a  book.  Every  one  knew  of  his 
reticence,  no  one  had  thought  of  him  as  writer.  He  had  never 
considered  himself  in  any  sense  a  literary  man,  but  had  held  in 
high  admiration  men  like  Halleck  and  Scott,  who  had  the  power 
to  express  themselves  in  Ihe  elevated  style  which  seemed  to  him 
good  literature.  Until  dire  necessity  forced  him  to  the  task,  he 
had  never  given  a  thought  to  the  recording  of  his  great  deeds. 
Having  made  history,  he  left  to  others  the  task  of  writing  it. 
And  yet  he  had  already  written  more  than  most  literary  men.  In 
that  long  row  of  volumes,  fat  and  portly,  called  The  Official 
War  Records,  his  mind,  along  certain  lines  of  thought,  had 
foimd  the  fullest  expression.     Literally  hundreds  of  thousands  of 

403 


404 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


words  written  by  his  own  hand  are  there  preserved.  No  cue  can 
study  the  enormous  bulk  of  these  despatches,  letters,  and  orders 
without  coming  to  a  high  admiration  of  the  marvellous  command 
which  General  (Irant  possessed  over  details  of  widely  separated 
plans  and  campaigns.  Nothing  confused  or  hurried  him.  In 
fact,  he  spoke  best  as  he  thought  best,  when  pushed  hardest. 
One  cannot  fail  to  be  impressed,  also,  by  the  nobility  and  lack  of 
self-consciousness  in  all  that  he  wrote.  In  this  immense  output, 
it  is  safe  to  say  there  is  not  one  line  discreditable  to  him. 

After  the  war  closed,  his  official  career  as  President  again  de- 
manded from  him  much  writing  of  a  certain  sort.  It  could  not 
be  said,  therefore,  that  he  was  without  practice  in  the  use  of  the 
pen.  Hut  in  all  this  writing  the  idea  of  form  was  absent.  He 
was  occupied  with  the  plain  statement  of  fact,  or  of  his  opinions. 
Of  the  narrative  form  he  had  made  little  use,  except  in  letters 
during  the  Mexican  war. 

When  he  set  himself  to  write  his  memoirs,  he  began  where  he 
had  laid  down  the  pen  after  the  war.  He  confined  himself  to  the 
simple  and  forthright  statement  of  the  facts.  He  told  again  the 
story  of  his  campaigns.  His  first  paper  was  upon  the  disputed 
battle  of  Shiloh,  concerning  which  he  had  never  before  made  a 
complete  report.  He  passed  from  this  to  a  succinct  and  masterly 
statement  of  the  siege  of  Vicksburg ;  and,  having  prepared  him- 
self for  pure  narrative,  turned  back  to  the  story  of  his  boyhood, 
his  life  in  Mexico,  and  on  the  coast.  In  this  order  the  great 
drama  of  his  life  unfolded  itself  naturally  and  easily  under  his 

l)en. 

The  peculiarity  of  his  mind  was  such  that  no  phrase  for  eflfect, 
no  extraneous  adornment,  was  possible  to  him.  He  was,  as  a 
friena  well  said,  "  almost  tediously  truthful."  It  was  his  primary 
intention  to  express  himself  clearly  and  with  as  few  words  as  pos- 
sible. The  workings  of  his  mind  were  always  direct  and  simple. 
Whatever  the  complications  going  on  around  him,  no  matter  how 
acrid  the  disputes  and  controversies  of  subordinates,  in  the  midst 
of  the  confusing  clash  of  opinions,  charges,  and  counter-charges, 
Grant  himself  remained  perfectly  direct,  calm,  and  single-minded. 
His  mind  digested  every  fact  within  reach,  and  cleared  itself 
before  he  came  to  speech.     He  never  used  words  to  cover  up 


'     i 


rya 


ULYSSES  S.    GRANT 


40$ 


No  oue  can 
s,  and  orders 
}us  command 
ely  separated 
ied  him.  In 
shed  hardest. 
y'  and  lack  of 
nense  output, 
him. 

ent  again  de- 
It  could  not 
he  use  of  the 
3  absent.  He 
'  his  opinions. 
;ept  in  letters 

gan  where  he 
himself  to  the 
:old  again  the 
I  the  disputed 
)efore  made  a 
t  and  masterly 
prepared  him- 
■  his  boyhood, 
rder  the  great 
sily  under  his 

•ase  for  effect, 
He  was,  as  a 
IS  his  primary 
words  as  pos- 
:t  and  simple, 
lo  matter  how 
i,  in  the  midst 
)unter-charges, 
single-minded. 
I  cleared  itself 
Is  to  cover  up 


his  thought,  seldom  to  aid  his  thought,  but  only  to  express  his 
thought. 

The  circumstances  under  which  the  larger  i)art  of  his  story  was 
written  sliow  clearly  his  will  power  and  his  manner  of  composi- 
tion.    For  months  he  was  unable  to  eat  solid  food,  water  felt  like 
hot  lead  passing  down  his  throat,  and  he  was  unable   to  sleep 
without   anodynes.      A  malignant  ulcer,  incurable  anil  insatiate, 
was  eating  its  way   into  his  throat  at  the  base  of  the  tongue. 
Speech  became  difficult,  and  at  last  impossible.     During  ihe  time 
that  he   was  still  able  to  speak,  he  dictated  much  of  the  story. 
Wasted  to  pitiful  thinness,  and  suffering  ceaselessly,  he  was  obliged 
to  sit  day  and  night  in  a  low  chair  with  his  feet  outtlirust  toward 
the  fire.     His  mind  was  abnormally  active,  filled  with  the  ceaseless 
revolving  panorama  of  his  epic  deeds.     M  times  he  was  forced 
to  the  use  of  morphia  to  cut  off  the  intolerable  movement  of  his 
thought.     The  sleeplessness  which  was  a  natural  accompaniment 
of  his  disease  was  added  to  by  the  task  which  he  had  set  himself 
to  complete,  but  he  did  not  allow  himself  to  cut  his  work  short  on 
that  account.    Yet  no  trace  of  his  suffering  is  to  be  found  in  the  book. 
He   dictated   slowly,   but   almost   without   hesitation,  and   his 
thought  grouped  itself  naturally  into  paragraphs,  and  seemed  to 
be   almost  perfectly  arranged   in  word  and  phrase,  ready  to  be 
drawn   off  like  the  precipitation  of  a  chemical  in  a  jar.     In  all 
this,  he  was  precisely  conforming  to  his  life-long  habit,  which  had 
been  to  speak  only  when  he  had  something  to  say  and  had  delib- 
erated how  to  say  it.     As  he  grew  weaker,  the  amount  of  his  dic- 
tation slowly  decreased,  and  at  the  last  ceased  altogether.     His 
work  was  done. 

The  book  surprised  the  world  by  its  dignity,  clarity,  and  sim- 
plicity of  style.  It  displayed  no  attempt  to  be  humorous,  and 
yet  became  so,  with  rare  effect,  at  times.  Its  author  did  not  at- 
tempt to  be  picturesque,  nor  to  magnify  his  importance  on  the 
battle-field.  He  was  dispassionate.  If  he  criticised  his  fellows, 
or  his  subordinates,  he  did  so  without  anger  and  without  envy. 
At.  rewrote  many  parts  of  his  story  in  order  that  he  should  not 
do  an  injustice.  He  had  no  hatred  of  his  enemies  when  he  was 
commander  in  the  field,  and  he  had  none  when  he  wrote  the  story 
of  his  life. 


I 


w 


4o6 


AMEKIVAX  PROSE 


(Irant  always  had  very  distiiu-t  limitations  as  a  writer.  I?.;  was 
a  bad  speller,  and  occasionally  he  lost  himself  in  loose  grammati- 
cal construction.  He  was  at  his  worst  whenever  he  attempted 
congratulatory  orders  to  his  troojjs,  and  at  his  best  when  detailing 
the  movements  of  an  army.  There  was  something  inexorable  in 
the  swift  march  of  his  words  at  such  times.  His  friends  said  : 
"  The  book  sounds  like  the  general."  His  speech  had  always  been 
singularly  plain  ;  even  as  a  Ixjy,  he  used  straightforward  Anglo- 
Saxon  words,  without  slang,  without  ])rofanity,  and  almost  without 
dialectic  peculiarities.  Throughout  his  life  he  retained  this  purity 
and  simplicity  of  diction,  and  in  his  memoirs  these  qualities  are 
found  raised  to  their  highest  power  at  a  time  when  to  express  his 
thought  in  any  form  was  an  agony  retiuiring  the  greatest  effort  to 
overcome. 

These  "  personal  memoirs  "  form  a  great  book.  It  is  not  all 
the  work  of  General  Grant's  hand,  but  the  best  of  it  is  his,  and  the 
temper  and  tone  of  it  are  almost  wholly  his.  The  first  volume  is 
entirely  his  own,  and  is  the  best,  although  it  is  not  exactly  in  the 
order  in  which  it  was  written.  It  is  a  great  book  ;  but  after  all  it 
fails,  as  any  such  book  must,  to  express  the  life  of  its  author.  It 
expresses  rather  his  attitude  toward  life.  His  natural  reserve  and 
his  habit  of  understatement  would  not  allow  him  to  tell  the  com- 
plete story  of  his  defeats,  nor  permit  him  to  record  his  triumphs. 
Naturally,  the  black  shadows  of  the  past  are  left  out,  as  well  as 
the  blazing  high  lights.  No  man  can  attain  eminence  such  as  his, 
without  suffering  from  the  bitter  enmity  and  savage  criticism  of 
those  who  fancy  themselves  set  aside  or  superseded.  The  book 
is  like  him  —  dispassionate,  even-tempered,  expressing  thought, 
but  never  emotion.  It  is  a  great  book,  but  it  is  not  in  any  sense 
the  inner  story  of  its  author's  life.  It  is  merely  the  obvious,  almost 
the  prosaic  side  of  the  life  of  one  of  the  three  preeminent  men  in 
American  history.  The  time  has  not  yet  come  when  the  story  of 
his  struggles  and  his  triumphs  can  be  fully  told  —  probably  it  will 
never  be  told. 

Hamlin  Garland 


cr.  I?.;  was 
sc  grumnuti- 
)c  attempted 
hen  detailing 
ncxorable  in 
friends  said  : 
1  always  been 
rwaril  Anglo- 
most  without 
;d  this  purity 
qualities  are 

0  express  his 
itest  effort  to 

It  is  not  all 
s  his,  and  the 
irst  volume  is 
exactly  in  the 
ut  after  all  it 
s  author.     It 

1  reserve  and 
tell  the  com- 
his  triumphs, 
ut,  as  well  as 
e  such  as  his, 
;  criticism  of 
I.  The  book 
sing  thought, 
t  in  any  sense 
bvious,  almost 
linent  men  in 
1  the  story  of 
robably  it  will 

N  Garl\nd 


ULYSSES  S.   CK.iXT 


WOI.VKS   AND    i'OMTICIAN.S 


407 


Whkn  our  party  left  Corpus  Christi  it  was  quite  large,  includ- 
ing the  cavalry  escort,  Paymaster,  Major  Dix,  his  cltrk,  and  the 
officers  who,  like  myself,  were  sim|)ly  on  leave;  but  all  the 
officers  on  leave,  except  Lieutenant  lienjamin —  afterwards  killed 
in  the  valley  of  Mexico — Lieutenant,  nowdeneral,  Augur,  and 
myself,  concluded  to  spend  their  allotted  time  at  San  Antonio 
and  return  from  there.  We  were  all  to  be  back  at  Corpus  Christi 
by  the  end  of  the  month.  The  paymaster  was  detained  in  Austin 
so  long  that,  if  we  had  waited  for  him,  we  wouhl  have  exceeded 
our  leave.  We  concluded,  therefore,  to  start  back  at  once  with 
the  animals  we  had,  and  having  to  rely  i)rincipally  on  grass  for 
their  food,  it  was  a  good  six  days'  journey.  We  had  to  sleep  on 
the  prairie  every  niuht,  excejjt  at  Cioliad,  and  possibly  one  night 
on  the  Colorado,  without  shelter  and  with  only  such  food  as  we 
carried  with  us,  and  prepared  ourselves.  The  journey  was  haz- 
ardous on  account  of  Indians,  and  there  were  white  men  in 
Texas  whom  I  would  not  have  cared  to  meet  in  a  secluded  place. 
Lieutenant  Augur  was  taken  seriously  sick  before  we  reached 
Goliad  and  at  a  distance  from  any  habitation.  To  add  to  the 
complication,  his  horse  —  a  mustang  that  had  probably  been  cap- 
tured from  the  band  of  wild  horses  before  alluded  to,  and  of  un- 
doubted longevity  at  his  capture  —  gave  out.  It  was  absolutely 
necessary  to  get  forward  to  (loliad  to  find  a  shelter  for  our  sick 
companion.  By  dint  of  patience  and  exceedingly  slow  move- 
ments, Goliad  was  at  last  reached,  and  a  shelter  and  bed  secured 
for  our  patient.  We  remained  over  a  day,  hoping  that  Augur 
might  recover  sufficiently  to  resume  his  travels.  He  did  not, 
however,  and  knowing  that  Major  Dix  would  be  along  in  a  few 
days  with  his  wagon-train,  now  empty,  and  escort,  we  arranged 
with  our  Louisiana  friend  to  take  the  best  of  care  of  the  sick 
lieutenant  until  thus  relieved,  and  went  on. 

I  had  never  been  a  sportsman  in  my  life;  had  scarcely  ever 
gone  in  search  of  game,  and  rarely  seen  any  when  looking  for  it. 
On  this  trip  there  was  no  minute  of  time  while  travelling  between 
San  Patricio  and  the  settlements  on  the  San  Antonio  River,  from 


■^i^^M^M 


4oS 


.i.\//:a'/(:i.v  /'Kos/-: 


■  till 


San  Antonio  to  Austin,  nml  again  from  the  Colorado  Kiscr  back 
to  San  l'atri(  io,  wiun  deer  or  .intelope  rowlil  not  l)e  seen  in  great 
niMnbers.  I)ach  oflicer  carried  a  shot  gun,  and  every  evening, 
after  going  into  (ani)),  some  would  go  out  and  soon  return  with 
venison  <ind  wild  turkeys  enough  for  tlie  entire  tamp.  I,  how- 
ever, never  went  out,  and  had  no  occasion  to  fire  my  gun ;  except, 
being  detained  over  a  day  at  (loliad,  Henjamin  and  I  concluded 
to  go  down  to  the  creek  —  which  was  fringed  with  timber,  much 
of  it  the  i)ecan  —  and  bring  bai  k  a  few  turkeys.  We  had  scarcely 
rcac  hcd  the  edge  of  the  timber  when  1  heard  the  flutter  of  wings 
overhead,  and  in  an  instant  I  saw  two  or  three  turkeys  (lying 
away.  These  were  soon  followc«l  by  more,  then  more,  and  more, 
imlil  a  flock  of  twenty  or  thirty  had  left  from  just  over  my  head. 
All  this  time  I  stood  wati  hing  the  turkeys  to  see  where  they  flew 
—  with  my  gun  on  my  shoulder,  and  never  once  thought  of  level- 
ling it  at  the  birds.  When  I  had  time  to  reflect  upon  the  matter, 
I  came  to  the  conclusion  that  as  a  sportsman  I  was  a  failure,  and 
went  back  to  the  house.  Henjamin  remained  out,  and  got  as 
many  turkeys  as  he  wanted  to  carry  back. 

After  the  second  night  at  Goliad,  Henjamin  and  I  started  to 
make  the  remainder  of  the  journey  alone.  '  reached  Corpus 
Christi  just  in  time  to  avoid  "absence  wit  "ave."     We  met 

no  one  —  not  even  an  Iniiian  —  during  tnc  remainder  of  our 
journey,  except  at  San  Patricio.  A  new  settlement  had  been 
started  there  in  our  absence  of  three  weeks,  induced  possibly  by 
the  fact  that  there  were  houses  already  built,  while  the  proximity 
of  troops  gave  protection  against  the  Indians.  On  the  evening 
of  the  first  day  out  from  CJoliad  we  heard  the  most  unearthly 
howling  of  wolves,  directly  in  our  front.  The  prairie  grass  was 
tall  and  we  could  not  see  the  beasts,  but  the  sound  indicated  that 
they  were  near.  To  my  ear  it  appeared  that  there  must  have 
been  enough  to  devour  our  party,  horses  and  all,  at  a  single 
meal.  The  part  of  Ohio  that  I  hailed  from  was  not  thickly  set- 
tled, but  wolves  had  been  driven  out  long  before  I  left.  Ben- 
jamin was  from  Indiana,  still  less  populated,  where  the  wolf  yet 
roamed  over  the  prairies.  He  understood  the  nature  of  the  ani- 
mal and  the  capacity  of  a  few  to  make  believe  there  was  an  un- 
limited number  of  them.    He  kept  on  towards  the  noise,  unmoved. 


™-^.'.iVi--» 


I)  Kiver  back 
seen  in  great 
very  evening, 
n  return  with 
mp.  I,  how- 
gun  ;  exiept, 
I  I  ( oncluiled 
tinil)er,  much 
e  had  scarcely 
utter  of  wings 
turiceys  (lying 
)re,  and  more, 
:)ver  my  head, 
bcre  they  flew 
Might  of  ievel- 
sn  the  matter, 
a  failure,  and 
It,  and  got  as 

id  I  started  to 
;ached  Corpus 
ve."  We  met 
ainder  of  our 
ent  had  been 
;d  possibly  by 

the  proximity 
)n  the  evening 
nost  unearthly 
lirie  grass  was 
indicated  that 
;re  must  have 
II,  at  a  single 
lot  thickly  set- 

I  left.  Ben- 
re  the  wolf  yet 
ure  of  the  ani- 
ere  was  an  un- 
oise,  unmoved. 


If/.YSS/iS  S.    GK.iNT 


4»; 


I  followed  in  his  trail,  lacking  moral  courage  to  turn  back  and 
join  our  sick  companion.     I  have  no  doubt  that  if  Hcnjamin  had 
proposed  returning  to  (loliad,  I  would  not  only  have  "seconded 
the  motion  "  but  have  suggested  that  it  was  very  hard-hearted  in 
us  to  leave  Augur  sick  there  in  the  first  place;  but  Hcnjamin  did 
not  propose  turning  back.     When  he  did  speak  it  was  to  ask : 
"(;rant,  how  many  wolves  do  you  think  there  are  in  that  pack?" 
Knowing  where  he  was  from,  and  suspecting  that  he  thought  I 
would  over-estimate  the  number,  I  determined  to  show  my  ac- 
quaintance with  the  animal  by  putting  the  estimate  below  what 
possibly  could  be  correct,  and  answered;  "Oh,  about  twenty," 
very  indifferently.     He  smiled  and  rode  on.     In  a  minute  we 
were  close  upon  them,  and  before  they  saw  us.     There  were  just 
hvo  of  them.     Seated  ujwn  their  haunches,  with  their  mouths 
close  together,  they  had  made  all  the  noise  wc  had  been  hearing 
for  the  past  ten  minutes.     I  have  often  thought  of  this  incident 
since  when  1  have  heard  the  noise  of  a  few  disappointed  politi- 
cians who  had  deserted  their  associates.     There  are  always  more 
of  them  before  they  arc  counted. 


[ Ptrsonal  Afemoirs  of  U-  S.  Grant,   Rep 
Company,  from  vol.  i,  pp.  75-78] 


ICl 


,1,  Ijy  permission  of  The  Century 


LEE'S    SURRENDER 

I  was  conducted  at  once  to  where  Sheridan  was  located  with 
his  troops  drawn  up  in  line  of  battle  facing  the  Confederate  army 
near  by.  They  were  very  much  excited,  and  expressed  their  view 
that  this  w?  >  all  a  ruse  employed  to  enable  the  Confederates  to 
get  away.  They  said  they  believed  that  Johnston  was  marching 
from  North  Carolina  now,  and  Lee  was  moving  to  join  him;  and 
they  would  whip  the  rebels  where  they  now  were  in  five  minutes 
if  I  would  only  let  them  go  in.  But  I  had  no  doubt  about  the 
good  faith  of  Lee,  and  pretty  soon  was  conducted  to  where  he 
was.  I  found  him  at  the  house  of  a  Mr.  McLean,  at  Appomattox 
Court  House,  with  Colonel  Marshall,  one  of  his  staff  officers, 
awaiting  my  arrival.  The  head  of  his  column  was  occupying  a 
hill,  on  a  portion  of  which  was  an  apple  orchard,  beyond  a  little 


trifciSjiS^fe. 


;^S&^&iiMi^^^^^^^!^^^^^Si^MSiM^^Si&^^isS^^& 


}'.  1' 


,   i"! 


i;  :» 


410 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


valley  which  separated  it  from  that  on  the  crest  of  which  Sheri- 
dan's forces  were  drawn  up  in  line  of  battle  to  the  soutl;. 

Before  stating  what  took  place  between  Cieneral  Lee  and  my- 
self, 1  will  give  ail  there  is  of  the  story  of  the  famous  apple 
tree. 

Wars  produce  many  storie«  of  fiction,  some  of  which  are  told 
until  they  are  believed  to  be  true.  The  war  of  the  rebellion  was 
no  exception  to  this  rule,  and  the  story  of  the  apple  tree  is  one 
of  those  fictions  based  on  a  slight  foundation  of  fact.  As  I  have 
said,  there  was  an  ai)ple  orchard  on  the  side  of  the  hill  occupied 
by  the  Confederate  forces.  Running  diagonally  up  the  hill  was 
a  wagon  roail,  whicli,  at  one  point,  ran  very  near  one  of  the  trees, 
so  that  the  wheels  of  the  vehicles  had,  on  that  side,  cut  ofr  the 
roots  of  this  tree,  leaving  a  little  embankment.  General  Bab- 
cock,  of  my  staff,  reported  to  me  that  when  lie  first  met  General 
Lee  he  was  sitting  upon  this  embankment  with  his  feet  in  the 
road  below  and  his  back  resting  against  the  tree.  The  story  had 
no  other  foundation  than  that.  Like  many  other  stories,  it  would 
be  very  good  if  it  was  only  true. 

1  had  known  General  Lee  in  the  old  army,  and  had  served  with 
him  in  the  Mexican  War;  but  did  not  suppose,  owing  to  the 
difference  in  our  age  and  rank,  that  he  would  remember  me; 
while  I  would  more  naturally  remember  him  distinctly,  because 
he  was  the  chief  cf  staff  of  General  Scott  in  the  Mexican  War. 

Wiien  I  left  (-a-np  that  morning  I  had  not  expected  so  soon  the 
lesuU  that  was  then  taking  place,  and  consequently  was  in  rough 
garb.  1  was  without  a  sword,  as  I  usually  was  when  on  horse- 
back on  the  field,  and  wore  a  soldier's  blouse  for  a  coat,  with 
the  shoulder  straps  of  my  rank  to  intlicate  to  the  army  who  I  was. 
NV'hen  I  went  into  the  house  I  found  General  Lee.  We  greeted 
each  other,  and  after  shaking  hands  took  our  seats.  1  had  my 
staff  with  me,  a  good  portion  of  whom  were  in  the  room  during 
the  whole  of  the  interview. 

What  General  Lee's  feelings  were  I  do  not  know.  As  he  was 
a  man  of  much  dignity,  with  an  impassible  face,  it  was  impos- 
sible to  say  whether  he  felt  inwardly  glad  that  the  end  had  finally 
come,  or  felt  sad  over  the  result,  and  was  too  manly  to  show  it. 
Whatever  his  feelings,  they  were  entirely  concealed  from  my  ob- 


m\. 


"'W-  %^~J^:'  ■ 


which  Sheri- 
soutl;. 

Lee  and  my- 
famous  apple 

ivhich  are  told 
:  rebellion  was 
pie  tree  is  one 
;t.  As  1  have 
hill  occupied 
ip  the  hill  was 
le  of  the  trees, 
le,  cut  off  thi 
General  liab- 
t  met  General 
is  feet  in  the 
The  story  had 
ories,  it  would 

ad  served  with 
owing  to  the 
emember  me; 
nctly,  because 
exican  War. 
ted  so  soon  the 
y  was  in  rough 
fhen  on  horse- 
r  a  coat,  with 
rmy  who  I  was. 
.  We  greeted 
Its.  1  had  my 
e  room  during 

w.  As  he  was 
it  was  impos- 
end  had  finally 
nly  to  show  it. 
d  from  my  ob- 


ULYSSES  S.   GRAXT 


411 


scrvution;  but  my  own  feelings,  which  had  been  quite  jubilant 
on  the  receipt  of  his  letter,  were  sad  and  depressed.  I  felt  like 
anything  rather  than  rejoicing  at  the  downfall  of  a  foe  who  had 
fought  so  long  and  valiantly,  and  had  suffered  so  mtich  for  a 
cause,  though  that  cause  was,  I  believe,  one  cf  the  worst  for 
which  a  people  ever  fought,  and  one  for  which  there  was  the 
least  excuse.  I  do  not  question,  however,  the  sincerity  of  the 
great  mass  of  those  who  were  opposed  to  us. 

Genera!  I.ee  was  dressed  in  a  full  uniform  which  was  entirely 
new,  and  was  wearing  a  sword  of  considerable  value,  very  likely 
the  sword  which  had  been  presen.cd  by  the  State  of  Virginia;  at 
all  events,  it  was  an  entirely  I'.iffcrent  sword  from  the  one  that 
would  ordinarily  be  worn  in  the  field.  In  my  rough  traveling 
s.iit,'  ihc  uniform  of  a  private  with  the  straps  of  a  lieutenant-gen- 
eral, I  must  have  contrasted  very  strangely  with  a  man  so  hand- 
somely dressed,  six  feet  high  and  of  faultless  form.  But  this  was 
not  a  matter  that  I  thought  of  until  afterwards. 

We  soon  fell  into  a  conversation  about  old  army  times.  He 
remarked  that  he  remembered  me  very  well  in  the  old  army;  and 
I  told  him  that  as  a  matferof  course  I  remembered  him  perfectly, 
but  from  the  difference  in  our  rank  and  years  (there  being  about 
sixteen  years'  difference  in  our  ages),  1  had  thought  it  very  likely 
that  I  had  not  attracted  his  attention  sufficiently  to  be  remem- 
bered by  him  after  such  a  long  interval.  Our  conversation  grew 
so  pleasant  that  I  almost  forgot  the  object  of  our  meeting.  After 
the  conversation  had  run  on  in  this  style  for  some  time,  General 
Lee  called  my  attention  to  the  object  of  our  meeting,  and  said 
that  he  had  asked  for  this  interview  for  the  purpose  of  getting 
from  me  the  terms  I  proposed  to  give  his  army.  I  said  that  I 
meant  merely  that  his  army  should  lay  down  their  arms,  not  to 
take  them  up  again  during  the  continuance  of  the  war  unless  duly 
and  properly  exchanged.  He  said  that  he  had  so  understood  my 
letter. 

Then  we  gradually  fell  off  again  into  conversation  about  matters 
foreign  to  the  subject  which  had  brought  us  together.  This  con- 
tinued for  some  little  time,  when  General  Lee  again  interrupted 
the  course  of  the  conversation  by  suggesting  that  the  terms  I  pro- 
posed to  give  his  army  ought  to  be  written  out.     I  called  to  Gen- 


.^mm^Mmm^-^ 


L*iMti' 


412 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


w. 


eral   I'arker,  secretary  on  my  staff,   for  writing  materials, 
commenced  writing  out  the  following  terms:  — 


and 


Appomattox  C.  il ,  Va., 
April  9th,  1865. 
Gen.  R.  E.  Lee,  Conufg  C.  S.  A. 

Gen  :  —  In  accordance  with  the  substance  of  my  letter  to  you  of 
the  8th  inst.,  I  propose  to  receive  the  surrender  of  the  Army  of 
N.  Va.  on  the  following  terms,  to  wit:  Rolls  of  all  the  officers 
and  men  to  be  made  in  duplicate.  One  copy  to  be  given  to  an 
officer  designated  by  me,  the  other  to  be  retained  by  such  officer 
or  officers  as  you  may  designate.  The  officers  to  give  their  indi- 
vidual paroles  not  to  take  up  arms  against  the  (}overnment  0/  the 
United  States  until  properly  exchanged,  and  each  company  or 
regimental  commander  sign  a  like  parole  for  the  men  of  their 
commands.  'I  he  arms,  artillery,  and  public  property  to  be  parked 
and  stacked,  and  turned  over  to  the  officer  appointed  by  me  to 
receive  them.  This  will  not  embrace  the  side  arms  of  the 
officers,  nor  their  private  horses  or  baggage.  This  done,  each 
officer  and  man  will  be  allowed  to  return  to  their  homes,  not  to 
be  disturbed  by  United  States  authority  so  long  as  they  observe 
their  paroles  and  the  laws  in  force  where  they  may  reside. 

Very  respectfully, 

U.   S.   Grant,   Lt.   Gen. 


y   14\- 


When  I  put  my  pen  to  the  paper  I  did  not  know  the  first  word 
that  I  should  make  use  of  in  writing  the  terms.  I  only  knew 
what  was  in  my  mino>  and  I  wished  to  express  it  clearly,  so  that 
there  could  be  no  mistaking  it.  As  I  wrote  on,  the  thought 
occurred  to  me  that  the  officers  had  their  own  private  horses  and 
effects,  which  were  important  to  them,  but  of  no  value  to  us; 
also  that  it  would  be  an  unnecessary  humiliation  to  call  upon 
them  to  deliver  their  side  arms. 

No  conversation,  not  one  word,  passed  between  General  Lee 
and  myself,  either  about  private  property,  side  arms,  or  kindred 
subjects.  He  appeared  to  have  no  objections  to  the  terms  first 
proposed;  or  if  he  had  a  point  to  make  against  them  he  wished 


'..--:  ,a  .:>.'iiit;':.^.;tk^^£rvuv'.tj 


.•,'!.rvk(m.'ittrf»^«nwi 


iterials,  and 


xC.  il,  Va., 
th,  1865. 

tter  to  you  of 
the  Army  of 
1  the  officers 
e  given  to  an 
y  such  officer 
ve  their  indi- 
rnment  oj  the 

company  or 
men  of  their 
f  to  be  parked 
ited  by  me  to 

arms  of  the 
is  done,  each 
homes,  not  to 
3  they  observe 
reside. 

,   Lt.   Gen. 

the  first  word 
I  only  knew 
;learly,  so  that 
1,  the  thought 
ate  horses  and 
3  vahie  to  us; 
1  to  call  upon 

1  General  Lee 

ms,  or  kindred 

the  terms  first 

hem  he  wished 


ULYSSES  S.   GRANT 


413 


to  wait  until  they  were  in  writing  to  make  it.  When  he  read 
over  that  part  of  the  terms  about  side  arms,  horses  and  pri\  ate 
property  of  the  officers,  he  remarked,  with  some  feeling,  I 
thought,  that  this  would  have  a  happy  effect  upon  his  army. 

Then,  after  a  little  further  conversation,  (Jeneral  Lee  remarked 
to  me  again  that  their  army  was  organized  a  little  differently  from 
the  army  of  the  United  States  (still  maintaining  by  implication 
that  we  were  two  countries);  that  in  their  army  the  cavalrymen 
and  artillerists  owned  their  own  horses;  and  he  asked  if  he  was 
to  understand  that  the  men  who  so  owned  their  horses  were  to 
be  permitted  to  retain  them.  I  told  him  that  as  the  terms  were 
written  they  would  not;  that  only  the  officers  were  permitted  to 
take  their  private  property.  He  then,  after  reading  over  the 
terms  a  second  time,  remarked  that  that  was  clear. 

I  then  said  to  him  that  I  thought  this  would  be  about  the  last 
battle  of  the  war  — I  sincerely  hoped  so;  and  1  said  further  I 
took  it  that  most  of  the  men  in  the  ranks  were  small  farmers. 
The  whole  country  had  been  so  raided  by  the  two  armies  that  it 
was  doubtful  whether  they  would  be  able  to  put  in  a  crop  to  carry 
themselves  and  their  families  through  the  next  winter  without 
the  aid  of  the  horses  they  were  then  riding.  The  United  States 
did  not  want  them  and  I  would,  therefore,  instruct  the  officers  I 
left  behind  to  receive  the  paroles  of  his  troops  to  let  every  man 
of  the  Confederate  army  who  claimed  to  own  a  horse  or  mule 
take  the  animal  to  his  home.  Lee  remarked  again  that  this 
would  have  a  happy  effect. 

He  then  sat  down  and  wrote  out  the  following  letter : 

Headquarters  Army  of  Northern  Virginia, 
April  9, 1865. 

General:  —  I  received  your  letter  of  this  date  containing  the 
terms  of  the  surrender  ot  the  Army  of  Northern  Virginia  as  pro- 
posed by  you.  As  th«iy  are  substantially  the  same  as  those  ex- 
pressed in  your  letter  of  the  8th  inst.,  they  are  accepted.  I  will 
proceed  to  designate  the  proper  officers  to  carry  the  stipulations 

into  effect. 

R.  E.  Lee,  General. 

Lieut. -General  U.  S.  Grant. 


I 


4M 


AMERICAN  PKOSE 


V  ,lif 


',  i  m  'i\  f 


'*^kim. 


While  duplicates  of  the  two  letters  were  being  made,  the  Union 
generals  present  were  severally  presented  to  General  Lee. 

ihe  much  talked  of  surrendering  of  1-ee's  sword  and  my  hand- 
ing it  back,  this  and  much  more  that  has  been  said  about  it  is  the 
purest  romance.  'Ihe  word  .-.word  or  side  arms  was  not  mentioned 
by  either  of  us  until  1  wrote  it  in  the  terms.  There  w,-  no  pre- 
meditation, and  it  did  not  occur  to  me  until  the  moment  I  wrote  it 
down.  If  I  had  happened  to  oniit  it,  and  General  Lee  had  called 
my  attention  to  it,  I  should  have  put  it  in  the  terms  precisely  as  I 
acccflod  lo  the  provision  about  the  soldiers  retaining  their  horses. 

General  Lee,  after  all  was  completed  and  before  taking  his 
leave,  remarked  that  his  army  was  in  a  very  bad  condition  for 
want  of  food,  and  that  they  were  without  forage;  that  his  men 
had  been  living  for  some  days  on  parched  corn  exclusively,  and 
that  he  would  have  to  ask  me  for  rations  and  forage.  I  told  him 
"certainly,"  and  asked  for  how  many  men  he  wanted  rations. 
His  answer  was  "about  twenty-five  thousand:"  and  I  authorized 
him  10  send  his  own  commissary  and  quartermaster  to  Appomattox 
Station,  two  or  three  miles  away,  where  he  could  have,  out  of  the 
trains  we  had  stopped,  all  the  provisions  wanted.  As  for  forage,  we 
had  ourselves  depended  almost  entirely  upon  the  country  for  that. 

Generals  Gibbon,  Grififin  and  Merritt  were  designated  by  me 
to  carry  into  effect  the  paroling  of  Lee's  troops  before  they  should 
start  for  their  homes  — General  Lee  leaving  Generals  Longstreet, 
Gordon  and  Pendleton  for  them  to  confer  with  in  order  to  facili- 
tate this  work.  Lee  and  I  then  separated  as  cordially  as  we  had 
met,  he  returning  to  his  own  lines,  an.l  all  went  into  bivouac  for 
the  night  at  Ajjpomattox. 

Soon  after   Lee's  departure   1  telegraphed  to  Washington  as 

follows: —  „   ,,     ,. 

HEAtlQUARrERS  APPOMATTOX  C.   H.,    VA., 
April  9th,  1865,4.30  P.M. 

Hon.  E.  M.  Stanion,  Skcrktvrv  of  War, 
W'ashinctok. 
General  Lee  surrendered  the  Army  of  Northern  Virginia  this 
afternoon  on  terms  proposed   by  myself.     The   accompanying 
additional  correspondence  will  show  the  conditions  fully. 

U.  S.  Grant,  Lieut.-General, 


le,  the  Union 
I  Lee. 

liid  my  hand- 
ibout  it  is  the 
ot  mentioned 
e  w,'    no  pre- 
lent  I  wrote  it 
,ee  had  called 
precisely  as  I 
;  their  horses, 
re  taking  his 
condition  for 
that  his  men 
clusively,  and 
.     I  told  him 
inted  rations. 
1  I  authorized 
o  Appomattox 
ve,  out  of  the 
i  for  forage,  we 
untry  for  that, 
ignated  by  me 
ire  they  should 
lis  Longstreet, 
)rder  to  facili- 
ally  as  we  had 
to  bivouac  for 

tVashington  as 
)X  C.  H.,  Va., 

JO  F.M. 


1  Virginia  this 
accompanying 
IS  fully. 
ui.- General, 


ULYSSES  S.    GRANT 


415 


When  the  news  of  the  surrender  "irst  reached  our  lines  our  men 
commenced  firing  a  salute  of  u  hundred  guns  in  honor  of  the 
victory.  I  at  once  sent  word,  however,  to  have  it  stopped.  The 
Confederates  were  now  our  prisoners,  and  we  did  not  want  to 
exult  over  their  downfall. 

I  determined  to  return  to  Washington  at  once,  with  a  view  to 
putting  a  stop  to  the  purchase  of  supplies,  and  what  I  now  deemed 
other  useless  outlay  of  money.  Before  leaving,  however,  I 
thought  I  would  like  to  see  General  Lee  again;  so  next,  morning 
I  rode  out  beyond  our  lines  towards  his  headquarters,  preceded 
by  a  bugler  and  a  staff-ofificer  carrying  a  white  flag. 

Lee  soon  mounted  his  horse,  seeing  who  it  was,  and  met  me. 
We  had  there  between  the  lines,  sitting  on  horseback,  a  very 
pleasant  conversation  of  over  half  an  hour,  in  the  course  of  which 
Lee  said  to  me  that  the  South  was  a  big  country,  and  that  we  might 
have  to  march  over  it  three  or  four  times  before  the  war  entirely 
ended,  but  that  we  would  now  be  able  to  do  it  as  they  could  no 
longer  resist  us.  He  expressed  it  i\r-  his  earnest  hope,  however, 
that  we  would  not  be  calk  ,)on  to  cause  more  loss  and  sacrifice 
of  life;  but  he  could  not  foretell  the  result.  I  then  suggested  to 
General  Lee  that  there  was  not  a  man  in  the  Confederacy  whose 
influence  with  the  soldiery  and  the  whole  people  was  as  great  as 
his,  and  that  if  he  would  now  advise  the  surrender  of  all  the 
armies  I  had  no  doubt  his  advice  would  be  followed  with  alacrity. 
But  Lee  said,  that  he  could  not  do  that  without  consulting  the 
President  first.  I  knew  there  was  no  use  to  urge  him  to  '->  any- 
thing against  his  ideas  of  what  was  right. 

I  was  accompanied  by  my  staff  and  other  officers,  some  of 
whom  seemed  to  have  a  great  desire  to  go  inside  the  Confederate 
lines.  They  fin-ally  asked  permission  of  Lee  to  do  so  for  the  pur- 
pose of  seeing  some  of  their  old  army  friends,  and  the  permis- 
sion was  granted.  They  went  over,  had  a  very  pleasant  time  with 
their  old  friends,  and  brought  some  of  them  back  with  them 
when  they  returned. 

When  Lee  and  I  separated  he  went  back  to  his  lines  and  I  re- 
turned to  the  house  of  Mr.  McLean.  Here  the  officers  of  both 
armies  came  in  great  numbers,  and  seemed  to  enjoy  the  meeting 
as  much  as  though  they  had  been  friends  separated  for  a  long  time 


I»-^teis«MB 


ilii 


1 1I 


Id 


i    .mi  811 


s     ■v    t> 


^ 


416 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


while  fighting  battles  under  the  same  flag.  For  the  time  being  it 
looked  very  much  as  if  all  thought  of  the  war  had  escaped  their 
minds.  After  an  hour  pleasantly  paKsed  in  this  way  I  set  out  on 
horseback,  accompanied  by  my  staff  and  a  small  escort,  for  Burkes- 
ville  Junction,  up  to  which  point  the  railroad  had  by  this  time 
been  repaired. 

[From  Penoual  Memoirs,  vol.  ii,  chapter  67.     Reprinted  by  permission  of 
The  Century  Company.] 


time  being  it 
scaped  their 
I  set  out  on 
t,  for  Hurkes- 
by  this  time 

y  permission  of 


GEORGE  WILLIAM   CURTIS 

[George  William  Curtis  was  born  in  Providence,  R.I.,  Feb.  24,  1824. 
He  was  sent  to  school  at  Jamaica  Plain,  near  liostun,  liut  had  afterwards 
no  academic  training.  In  1839  his  family  removed  to  New  York,  where  he 
lived  till  1842.  He  early  satisfied  a  wish  he  had  for  a  simple,  useful  life  by 
working  on  a  farm  in  New  England,  and  he  was  for  some  time  a  member  of 
the  famous  lirook  Farm  Community.  In  1846  he  went  abioad,  and  travelled 
in  Europe  and  the  East  for  three  or  four  years,  returning  home  in  1850.  Two 
years  later  he  became  the  editor  of  Putnam's  Magazine,  and  on  giving  up  that 
periodical  he  took  the  department  of  the  Easy  Chair  in  Harper's  Monthly, 
which  he  continued  to  write  till  the  time  of  his  death.  He  entered  public  life 
in  1855,  and  became  known  throughout  the  country  as  a  political  writer  and 
speaker;  he  was  already  active  and  popular  as  a  lecturer.  He  refused  several 
places  of  honor  abroad,  but  accepted  from  Grant  the  appointment  of  Chair- 
man of  the  Civil  Service  Commission,  which  owed  to  him  its  first  efficiency 
in  the  course  of  political  reform.  Up  to  the  time  of  IJlaine's  nomination  foi 
the  presidency  he  was  a  republican;  but  after  that,  though  he  suppt)rted  Gar- 
field, he  was  independent  of  party  ties.  He  died  at  West  New  Brighton, 
Staten  Island,  Aug.  31,  1892. 

The  following  are  the  names  and  dates  of  Curtis's  principal  works :  A% 
Notes  of  a  Ilowadji  (1851),  The  Howadji  in  Syria  (1852),  The  Potiphar 
Papers  (1853),  Prue  and  I  (1856),  Trumps  (1861),  Eulogy  on  Wendell 
Phillips  (1884),  three  series  uf  essays  From  the  Easy  Chair  (1892,  1893, 
1 894) ,  and  James  Russell  Lowell  i;  1 892) .  H  is  Orations  and  Addresses,  edited 
by  Charles  Eliot  Norton,  appea.ed  in  1893-94.  His  biography  has  been 
written  by  Edward  Cary  (1895).] 

When  time  shall  have  got  him  in  the  right  perspective,  few  of 
our  writers  will  show  as  distinct  and  continuous  a  purpose,  as 
direct  a  growth  from  a  very  definite  impulse,  as  George  William 
Curtis.  The  impulse  seemed  to  exhaust  itself  at  a  certain  moment 
of  his  career,  but  perhaps  it  was  only  included  and  carried  forward 
in  the  larger  and  stronger  impulse  which  made  the  witness  of  the 
effect  forget  the  aesthetic  quality  in  the  ethical  tendency.  His 
intellectual  life  was  really  of  a  singular  unity.    The  moral  force  which 


}' 


4i8 


AMEKlCAiV  PROSE 


I  ■-■  ^iii  i; 


^1 


illl'i 


» 

1  i 

i  1  !' 


'hi 


111 


ultimately  prevailed  was  always  present  in  the  earlier  charm  ;  and 
the  grace  which  his  strenuousness  kept  to  the  end  wus  as  in- 
alienably his.  He  was  both  artist  and  moralist  from  the  beginning 
to  the  end  of  his  work.  He  could  not  help  trying  for  literary 
beauty  in  his  political  writings,  in  his  appeal  to  the  civic  sense  of 
his  countrymen  ;  he  could  not  forbear  to  remind  himself  and  his 
reader  of  higher  things  when  he  seemed  rapt  in  the  joy  of  art. 

He  was  of  Massachusetts  stock,  but  it  was  not  for  nothing  that 
he  was  born  in  Rhode  Island.  He  embodied  in  literature  that 
transition  from  New  England  to  New  York  which  his  state  repre- 
sents in  our  civilization.  The  influences  that  shaped  his  mind  and 
character,  that  kindled  his  sympathies  and  inspired  his  ideals, 
were  New  England  influences ;  the  circumstances  which  attracted 
his  energies  and  formed  his  opportunities  were  New  York  circum- 
stances. He  began  to  write  when  what  has  been  called,  for  want 
of  some  closer  phrase,  the  Knickerbocker  school  had  shrunken 
through  the  waning  activity  of  Irving  and  the  evanescence  of  Poe 
to  little  more  than  the  tradition  which  it  remains,  and  when  the 
great  Boston  group  of  poets  and  thinkers  was  in  its  glory,  when 
Hawthorne,  Emerson,  Longfellow,  Whittier,  Lowell,  Holmes, 
Prescott,  Ticknor,  Motley,  Parkman,  and  Phillips  were  establishing 
such  claim  as  we  had  to  literary  standing  before  the  world.  Yet 
he  did  not  write  like  the  Bostonians,  in  spite  of  his  inherent  and 
instinctive  ethicism.  He  was  not  Puritanic,  either  in  revolt  or  in 
acquiescence  ;  he  was  not  provincial  in  the  good  way  or  in  the  bad 
way,  in  the  way  of  Athens,  and  Florence,  and  Paris,  as  the  Bosto- 
nians sometimes  were,  or  in  the  way  of  Little  Peddlington,  as  they 
sometimes  were.  He  was  like  the  finest  and  greatest  of  them  in 
their  enlargement  to  the  measure  of  humanity,  though  he  was  not 
liberated  from  what  is  poor  and  selfish  and  personal  by  anything 
cosmopolitan  in  his  environment,  but  by  his  disgust  with  its  social 
meanness  and  narrowness.  What  "our  best  society  "  in  New  York 
was  in  1858,  the  best  society  in  1898  can  perhaps  hardly  imagine ; 
but  the  most  interesting  fact  of  that  period  was  the  evolution  of 
a  great  public  spirit  from  conditions  fatal  to  poorer  natures. 

A  great  public  spirit  was  what  Curtis  was :  at  first  tentatively 
and  falteringly,  and  then  more  and  more  voluntarily  and  fully. 
After  he  once  came  to  his  civic  consciousness,  he  could  not  con- 


Sii»^iii„_,..j....    .Mi,L.  . 


r  charir  ;  and 
1  wus  as  in- 
the  beginning 
ig  for  literary 
civic  sense  of 
mself  and  his 
joy  of  art. 
r  nothing  that 
literature  that 
is  state  repre- 
I  his  mind  and 
;d  his  ideals, 
hich  attracted 
York  circunj- 
lUed,  for  want 
had  shrunken 
iscence  of  Poe 
and  when  the 
ts  glory,  when 
veil.  Holmes, 
re  establishing 
e  world.  Yet 
inherent  and 
in  revolt  or  in 
'  or  in  the  bad 
as  the  Bosto- 
ington,  as  they 
est  of  them  in 
igh  he  was  not 
al  by  anything 
with  its  social 
"  in  New  York 
ardly  imagine ; 
le  evolution  of 
natures, 
irst  tentatively 
irily  and  fully, 
ould  not  con- 


GEORCR    WILLIAM    CURTIS 


419 


tent  himself  with  sterile  satire  of  New  York  society,  with  brcakin^j 
butterflies  or  even  more  vicious  insects  upon  wheels  ;  he  must  do 
something,  become  something ;  he  must  live  a  protest  against 
triviality  and  vulgarity,  and  he  chose  to  do  this  on  the  American 
scale.  It  was  not  till  he  had  written  The  Potiphar  Papers  that  he 
dedicated  iiimself  to  humanity  in  the  anti-slavery  reform,  and 
thereafter  to  the  purification  of  our  practical  politics.  But  he  had 
the  root  of  the  matter  always  in  him  :  it  germinated  far  back  in 
his  past,  wiien  as  a  young  man  he  joined  the  Brook  Farm  Commu- 
nity and  dreamed,  in  the  sweat  of  his  brow  and  the  work  of  his 
hands,  of  tlie  day  when  economic  etjuality  and  the  social  justice 
which  nothing  less  implies,  should  rule  among  men.  There  are  no 
miracles  in  character,  and  what  took  the  literary  world  with  surprise 
and  sorrow  when  Curtis  left  the  study  for  the  stump  was  the  sim- 
plest possible  effect  of  growth,  an  effect  wholly  to  be  expected 
and  hardly  to  have  been  avoided. 

His  two  books  of  Eastern  travel,  Nile  Notes  of  a  Jlowadji,  and 
The  Howadji  in  Syria,  followed  each  other  in  1851  and  1852, 
and  first  sounded  the  American  note  which  has  since  been  heard 
in  so  many  agreeable  books  o."  travel.  They  were  joyoun  dances 
of  tints  and  lights,  in  great  part ;  they  were  even  more  choreo- 
graphic than  musical,  though  they  were  written  from  an  ear  that 
sympathetically  sought  the  concord  of  sweet  sounds,  and  with  a 
skill  that  almost  cloyingly  reported  it.  They  give  a  picture  of  the 
pleasing  lands  of  "  drowsihed  "  through  which  they  lead  by  color 
rather  than  by  drawing,  but  the  picture  is  not  less  true,  for  a"  that, 
and  it  is  not  less  a  work  of  art  because  it  is  at  times  so  puii^iy  deco- 
rative. Ix)ng  before  impressionism  had  a  name,  Curtis's  studies  of 
travel  were  impressionistic ;  and  one  is  sensible  of  something  like 
this,  not  only  in  the  Howadji'  pages,  but  in  the  more  conscious 
effort,  Lotus-Eating,  a  Summtr  Book,  which  treated  of  American 
watering-places,  and  tried  to  divine  the  poetry  of  our  summer 
idling. 

This  appeared  in  1852,  and  was  followed  in  1854  by  The 
Potiphar  Papers,  which  satirized  the  vices  and  follies  of  the  self- 
called  best  society  of  New  York.  The  lash  was  laid  on  with 
rather  a  heavy  hand,  which  was  artistically  a  mistake  and  morally 
useless,  since  it  cpuld  not  penetrate  the  thick  skin  it  scourged ; 


■^  ,s,^«Mw;M&^ 


»0:msaimmiiiiimtk> 


420 


AMERICAN  I'KOSli 


'     , 


but  probably  the  diet  was  not  caricatured  in  the  satire.    The  next 

book  was  that  group  of  tender  and  winning  stmUes  in  the  ideal, 

J'n/f  <///</  /,  from  which  a  (  haracteristic  passage  follows.    '1  hey  were 

ri-printed  in  1856  from  Putnam's  Mit)^azinf,  which  Curtis  edited, 

and  in  whi<:h  they  had  won  lasting  favor.     They  form  undoubtedly 

his  most  popular  book  ;  witli  many  of  his  own  generation  it  is  not 

too  much  to  say  that  they  were  beloved.   They  expressed  something 

better  than  a  mood  ;  they  were  conceived  in  a  love  of  beauty  and 

expressed  in  a  love  of  humanity  ;  they  are  very  sentimental,  but 

they  are  never  insincere ;  the  worst  tliat  can  be  said  of  them  is 

that  they  are  weakened  by  tiie  tendency  to  allegory  which  was 

always  the  danger  of  the  aithor's  imagination,  but  this  was  their 

condition.     His  last  fiction  was   Trum/>s,  a  novel,  published  in 

1 86 1,  which  promptly,  and  it  appears  finally,  failed  of  a  public. 

After  that  furtis  wrote  tlie  graceful  and  gracious,  humanizing, 

civilizing  papers  of  the  I':asy  Chair  in  //</;/<'/'.»•  Monthly.     He  had 

already  made  his  mark  as  an  orator  on  the  anti-slavery  side  of 

politics ;  he  touched  widely  on  various  topics  in  these  pages  for 

ten  or  twelve   years;    he   took   an   active    part    in  all   patriotic 

interests  as  Ions?  as  he  lived ;  the  Civil  Service  Reform  he  may  be 

said  almost  to  have  created. 

William  Dean  Howells 


r*%.  !«*-■,«'-;>.  tf-^.^i  *VAV*- 


7'  ti^""'^ '    :  1^1 


The  next 
in  the  ideal, 

They  were 
iirtis  edited, 
undoubtedly 
tion  it  is  not 
:d  something 

beauty  and 
tinicntal,  but 
1  of  them  is 
•y  which  was 
his  was  their 
published  in 
a  public, 
humanizing, 
.ly.  He  had 
very  side  of 
se  pages  for 
all  patriotic 
m  he  may  be 

t   HOWELLS 


UKoA'aK  nii.i.iAM  cuKTis  431 


rilK    DUTY   OK   THIC   AMKKICAN   SCHOLAR 

Do  you  ask  me  our  duty  as  scholars?  (icnlicuu-n,  thought, 
wi)ich  the  scholar  represents,  is  life  and  liberty.  There  is  no 
intellectual  or  moral  life  without  lil)crty.  Therefore,  as  a  man 
must  breathe  and  see  before  he  can  study,  the  scholar  must  have 
liberty,  first  of  all ;  and  as  the  American  scholar  is  a  man  and  has 
a  voice  in  liis  own  government,  so  his  interest  in  1  olitical  affairs 
must  precede  all  others.  He  must  build  his  home  before  he  can 
live  in  it,  He  must  be  a  perpetual  inspiration  of  freedom  in 
politics.  He  must  recognize  that  the  intelligeni  «'xercise  of  politi- 
cal rights  which  is  ,1  |>rivilege  in  a  monarchy,  is  a  duty  in  a  republic. 
If  it  clash  with  his  ease,  his  retirement,  his  taste,  his  study,  let  it 
clash,  but  let  him  do  his  duty.  The  course  of  events  is  incessant, 
and  when  the  good  deed  is  slighted,  the  bad  deed  is  done. 

Young  scholars,  young  Americans,  young  men,  we  are  all  called 
upon  to  do  a  great  duty.  Nobody  is  released  from  it.  It  is  a 
work  to  be  done  by  hard  strokes,  and  everywhere.  I  ^ee  a  rismg 
enthusiasm,  but  enthusiasm  is  not  an  elecpon  ;  and  I  hear  cheers 
from  the  heart,  but  cheers  are  not  votes.  livery  man  must  labor 
with  his  neighbor  —  in  the  street,  at  the  plough,  at  the  bench,  early 
and  late,  at  home  and  abroad.''  Generally  we  are  concerned,  in 
elections,  with  the  measures  of  government.  This  time  it  is  with 
the  essential  principle  of  government  itself.  Therefore  there  must 
be  no  doubt  about  our  leader.  He  must  not  prevaricate,  or  stand 
in  the  fog,  or  use  terms  to  court  popular  favor,  which  every  dema- 
gogue and  traitor  has  always  used.  If  he  says  he  favors  the  in- 
terest of  the  whole  country,  let  him  frankly  say  whether  he  thinks 
the  interest  of  the  whole  country  demands  the  extension  of  slavery. 
If  he  declares  for  the  Union,  let  him  say  whether  he  means  a 
Union  for  freedom  or  for  slavery.  If  he  swear  by  the  (Constitution, 
let  him  state,  so  that  the  humblest  free  laborer  can  hear  and  under- 
stand, whether  he  believes  the  Constitution  means  to  prefer  slave 
labor  to  free  labor  in  the  national  representation  of  the  Territories. 
Ask  him  as  an  honest  man,  in  a  great  crisis,  if  he  be  for  the  Union, 
the  Constitution,  and  si, u  cry  extension,  or  lox"  Liberty  axidi.  union, 
now  and  forever,  one  and  inseparable." 


«^*^wSS6'.       -^®1SS3Si^3?SSr 


:l'|! 


U 


m 


422 


AMF.KfC.IX  PKOSE 


Scholars,  you  woulil  like  Id  loiter  in  the  pleasant  paths  of  study. 

ICvery  man  loves  his  east loves  to  please  his  taste.     Hut  into  how 

many  homes  alon^  this  lovely  valley  canie  the  news  of  lexin^ton 
and  ISnnker  Hill  eighty  years  ago;  and  yonnj?  men  like  us,  studi- 
ous, fond  of  leisure,  youiiK  lovers,  youiiK  luishands,  young  brothers, 
and  sons,  knew  that  they  nuint  forsake  the  wooded  hillside,  the 
river  meadows  golden  with  harvest,  the  twilight  walk  along  the 
river,  the  summer  .Sunday  in  the  oM  rhurch,  parents,  wife,  1  hild, 
mistress,  and  go  away  to  uncertain  war.  Putnam  heard  the  call  at 
his  plough,  ami  turned  to  go  without  waiting.  Wooster  heanl  it 
and  ol)eyed. 

Not  less  lovely  in  those  days  was  this  peaceful  valley,  not  less 
soft  this  summer  air.  Life  was  as  d  .-ar,  and  love  as  beautiful,  to 
those  young  men  as  to  us  who  stand  u|)on  their  graves.  Hut  be- 
cause they  were  so  dear  and  beautiful  those  men  went  out,  bravely 
to  fight  for  them  and  fill.  Through  these  very  streets  they  mart  hed, 
who  never  returned.  Thi  y  fell  ami  were  buried  ;  but  they  t  ,m  never 
die.'  Not  sweeter  are  the  flowers  that  make  your  valley  fair,  not 
greener  are  the  pines  that  give  your  river  its  name,  than  the  memory 
of  the  brave  men  who  died  for  freedom.  »  And  yet  no  victim  of 
those  days,  sleeping  under  the  green  sod  of  Connecticut,  is  more 
truly  a  martyr  of  Liberty  than  every  murdered  man  whose  bones 
lie  bleaching  in  this  sn-rmier  sun  upon  the  silent  plains  o*"  Kansas. 

Centlemen.'wlrV  we  read  hinory  we  make  history.'  .kcause 
our  fathers  fought  in  this  great  cause,  .v'  must  not  hojie  to  escape 
fighting.  Hecause  two  thoi.  ;und  years  ago  Leonidas  stood  against 
Xerxes  .e  n,  i.,t  not  suppose  that  Xerxes  was  slain,  nor,  thank 
God  !  that  l,eonidas  is  not  immortal.  Kvery  great  crisis  d  human 
history  is  •',  lass  if  T'lormopylae,  and  there  is  always  a  Legnidas 
and  hi.s  ihioe  hurnlrt.i  to  die  in  it,  if  they  cannot  conquer.  And 
so  long  as  Liberty  has  one  martyr,  so  long  as  one  drop  of  blood  is 
poured  out  for  her,  so  long  from  that  single  «lrop  of  bloody  sweat 
of  the  agony  of  humanity  shall  spring  hosts  as  countless  as  the 
forest  leaves  and  mighty  as  the  sea. 

Brothers  !  the  call  has  come  to  us.  I  bring  it  to  you  in  these 
calm  retreats.  I  summon  you  to  the  great  fight  of  Freedom.  I 
call  upon  you  to  say  with  your  voices,  whenever  the  occasion 
offers,  and  with  your  votes  when  the  day  comes,  that  upon  these 


k 


L 


TT 


—rf    *■      *-*&>*   ?w 


GKOKy'l-:    Willi  AM   I  UK  lis 


423 


ths  of  study, 
lilt  iiilo  how 
)f  Irxington 
ku  lis,  Hluili- 
\n\^  brothers, 
hillside,  the 
k  along  the 
,  wife,  ihild, 
(1  the  call  at 
iter  heard  it 

lley,  not  less 
beautiful,  to 
es.  Hut  be- 
out,  bravely 
ley  niar(  hed, 
icy  ( .in  never 
illey  fair,  not 
I  the  memory 
110  victim  of 
icut,  is  more 
whose  bones 
IS  o*"  Kansas. 
ry. '  ikcause 
])e  to  esca|)e 
stood  against 
,  nor,  thank 
isis  (>r  liuman 
\  a  Le(^nidas 
nquer.  And 
p  of  blood  is 
bloody  sweat 
ntless  as  the 

you  in  these 
Freedom.  I 
the  occasion 
t  upon  these 


fertile  fields  of  Kansas,  in  llic  v^'  v  heart  of  the  continent,  the 
upas-trecof  slavery,  dripping  deatli-'uws  upon  national  prosperity 
and  upon  free  labor,  shall  never  be  1  .anted.  I  call  upon  you  to 
plant  there  the  palm  of  pe.ue,  the  viii  •  and  the  olive  c-f  i  Chris- 
tian civiUzatioii.  1  call  upon  you  to  dcteriiiiue  whether  this  great 
experiment  of  human  freeilom,  which  has  been  the  scorn  of  des- 
potism, shall,  by  its  failure,  be  also  our  sin  and  shame.  I  call 
upon  you  to  defend  the  ht)pe  of  the  world. 

The  voice  of  our  brotiiers  who  are  bleeding,  no  less  than  of  our 
fathers  who  bled,  summons  us  to  this  battle.  Shall  the  <  hildren 
of  unborn  generations,  c!'istering  over  that  vast  western  empire, 
rise  up  and  c.iU  us  blessed  or  cursed?  Here  are  our  Marathon 
and  I.exington;  here  are  our  heroic  fields.  The  hearts  of  all 
good  men  lieat  with  us.  The  fight  is  fierce  — the  issue  is  with 
(loil.     Hut  (lod  is  good. 

[I'rum  '/'/;<•  Duly  of  Iht  Antericaii  Siholnf  lo  rolilifs  itiui  tht  'l'imes,~an 
oration  iklivcrnl  Ipclnre  the  literary  si.cicties  of  Wcalcyaii  University,  Miiidle- 
town,  Conn.,Aii(,'ust  5,  1856,  ami  repul)lished  in  paniplet  form  in  the  same 
year.  It  i*  also  included  in  Onilions  and  AMitsses,  1 884,  Harper  and 
Brothers,  vol.  1.     The  text  i»  that  of  the  original  publication.] 

TITHOTTOM'S  GRANDFATHER 

"  You  know  my  grandfather  Titbottom  was  a  West  Indian.  A 
large  proprietor,  and  an  easy  man,  he  basked  in  the  tropical  sun, 
leading  his  (piiet,  luxurious  life.  He  lived  much  alone,  and  was 
what  people  call  eccentric,  by  which  I  understand  that  he  was 
very  much  himself,  and,  refusing  the  influence  of  other  people, 
they  had  their  little  revenges,  and  called  him  names.  It  is  a  habit 
not  exclusively  tropical.  I  think  I  have  seen  the  same  thing  even 
in  this  city.  But  he  was  greatly  beloved  —  my  bland  and  bounti- 
ful grandfather.  He  was  so  large-hearted,  and  open-handed.  He 
was  so  friendly,  and  thoughtful,  and  genial,  that  even  his  jokes 
had  the  air  of  graceful  benedictions.  He  did  not  seem  to  grow 
old,  and  he  was  one  of  those  who  never  appear  to  have  been 
very  young.  He  flourished  in  a  perennial  maturity,  an  immortal 
middle-age. 

"  My  grandfather  lived  upon  one  of  the  small  islands,  St.  Kitt's, 
perhaps,  and  his  domain  extended  to  the  sea.     His  house,  a 


'A*i*(^(«toa«i&6isS^«*MifeiwS9^^ 


I      I 


s 


t^ 


11' 


424 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


rambling  West  Indian  mansion,  was  surrounded  with  deep,  spa- 
cious piazzas,  covered  witii  luxurious  lounges,  among  which  one 
capacious  chair  was  his  peculiar  seat.  Tliey  tell  me  he  used  some- 
times to  sit  there  for  the  wliole  day,  his  great,  soft,  brown  eyes 
fastened  upon  the  sea,  watching  the  specks  of  sails  that  (lashed 
upon  tiie  horizon,  while  the  evanescent  expressions  chased  each 
other  over  his  placid  face,  as  if  it  reflected  the  calm  and  changing 
sea  before  him.  His  morning  costume  was  an  ample  dressing- 
gown  -of  gorgeously  flowered  silk,  and  his  morning  was  very  apt  to 
last  all  day.  He  rarely  read,  but  he  would  pace  the  great  piazza 
for  hours,  with  his  hands  sunken  in  the  pockets  of  his  dressing- 
gown,  and  an  air  of  sweet  reverie,  which  any  author  might  be 
very  I'^appy  to  produce. 

"Society,  of  course,  he  saw  litUe.  There  was  some  slight 
apprehension  that  if  he  were  bidden  to  social  entertainments,  he 
might  forget  his  con.:,  or  arrive  without  some  other  essential  part 
of  his  dress ;  and  there  is  a  sly  tradition  in  the  Titbottom  fiimily, 
that,  having  been  invited  to  a  ball  in  honor  of  the  new  governor 
of  the  island,  my  grandfather  Titbottom  sauntered  into  the  hall 
towards  midnight,  wrapped  in  the  gorgeous  flowers  of  his  dressing- 
gown,  and  with  his  hands  buried  in  the  pockets,  as  usual.  There 
was  great  excitement  among  the  guests,  and  immense  deprecation 
of  gubernatorial  ire.  But  it  happened  that  the  governor  and  my 
grandfather  w  -re  old  friends,  and  there  was  no  oficnce.  But  as 
they  were  conversing  together,  one  of  the  distressed  managers  cast 
indignant  glances  at  the  brilliant  costume  of  my  grandfather,  who 
summoned  him,  and  asked  courteously  : 

"  '  Did  you  invite  me,  or  my  coat? ' 

"  '  You,  in  a  proper  coat,'  replied  the  manager. 

"  The  governor  smiled  approvingly,  and  looked  at  my  grand- 
father. 

" '  My  friend,'  said  he  to  the  manager,  '  I  beg  your  pardon,  I 

forgot.' 

"  The  next  day,  my  grandfather  was  seen  promenading  in  full 
ball  dress  along  the  streets  of  the  little  town. 

" '  They  ought  to  know,'  said  he,  '  that  I  have  a  proper  coat, 
and  that  not  contempt  nor  poverty,  but  forgetfulness,  sent  me  to  a 
ball  in  my  dressing-gown.' 


Cw--. 


^^dik 


nth  deep,  spa- 
ong  which  one 
:  lie  used  some- 
ft,  brown  eyes 
Is  that  (lashed 
s  chased  each 
1  and  changinji; 
imple  dressiiig- 
was  very  apt  to 
le  great  piazza 
)f  his  dressing- 
iithor  might  be 

as  some  slight 
crtainments,  he 
r  essential  part 
tbottom  fiimily, 
e  new  governor 
;d  into  the  hall 
of  his  dressing- 
s  usual.  There 
nse  deprecation 
overnor  and  my 
ffence.  IJut  as 
d  managers  cast 
randfather,  who 


d  at  my  grand- 

your  pardon,  I 

nenading  in  full 

I  a  proper  coat, 
ess,  sent  me  to  a 


GEORGE    WILLIAM  CURTIS 


425 


"  He  did  not  nmch  frequent  social  festivals  after  this  failure,  but 
he  always  told  the  story  with  satisfaction  and  a  quiet  smile. 

"  To  a  stranger,  life  upon  those  little  islands  is  uniform  even  to 
weariness.  But  the  old  native  dons  like  my  grandfather,  ripen  in 
the  prolonged  sunshine,  like  the  turUe  upon  the  Bahama  banks,  nor 
know  of  existence  more  desirable.  Life  in  .he  tropics,  I  take  to 
be  a  placid  torpidity.  During  the  long  warm  mornings  of  nearly 
half  a  century,  my  grandfather  Titbottom  had  sat  in  his  dressing- 
gown,  and  gazed  at  the  sea.  But  one  calm  June  day,  as  he  slowly 
paced  the  i)iazza  after  breakfast,  his  dreamy  glance  was  arrested  by 
a  little  vessel,  evidently  nearing  the  shore.  He  called  for  his  spy- 
glass, and  surveying  the  craft,  saw  that  she  came  from  the  neighbor- 
ing island.  She  glided  smoothly,  slowly,  over  the  summer  sea.  The 
warm  morning  air  was  sweet  with  perfumes,  and  silent  with  heat. 
The  sea  sparkled  languidly,  and  the  brilliant  blue  sky  hung  cloud- 
lessly over.  Scores  of  little  island  vessels  had  my  grandfather  seen 
come  over  the  horizon,  and  cast  anchor  in  the  port.  Hundreds  of 
summer  mornings  had  the  white  sails  flashed  and  faded,  like  vague 
faces  through  forgotten  dreams.  But  this  time  he  laid  down  the 
spyglass,  and  leaned  against  a  column  of  the  piazza,  and  watched 
the  vessel  with  an  "ntentness  that  he  could  not  explain.  She 
came  nearer  and  nearer,  a  graceful  spectre  in  the  dazzling  morning. 
" '  Decidedly,  I  must  step  down  and  see  about  that  vessel,'  said 
my  grandfather  Titbottom. 

"  He  gathered  his  ample  dressing-gown  about  him,  and  stepped 
from  the  piazza  with  no  other  protection  from  the  sun  than  the 
little  smoking-cap  upon  his  head.  His  face  wore  a  calm  beaming 
smile,  as  if  he  approved  of  all  the  world.  He  was  not  an  old  man, 
but  there  was  almost  a  patriarchal  pathos  in  his  expression  as  he 
sauntered  along  in  the  sunshine  towards  the  shore.  A  group  of 
idle  gazers  was  collected  to  watch  the  arrival.  The  little  vessel 
furled  her  sails  and  drifted  slowly  landward,  and  as  she  was  of 
very  light  draft,  she  came  close  to  the  shelving  shore.  A  long 
plank  was  put  out  from  her  side,  and  the  debarkation  commenced. 
My  grandfather  Titbottom  stood  looking  on  to  see  the  passengers 
as  they  passed.  There  were  but  a  few  of  them,  and  mostly  traders 
from  the  neighboring  island.  But  suddenly  the  face  of  a  young 
girl  appeared  over  the  side  of  the  vessel,  and  she  stepped  upon 


Etfft^Sss^*" 


42(3 


AMEKICAM  PROSE 


the  idank  to  descend.  My  grandfather  TitboUom  instantly  ad- 
vanced, and  moving  briskly  reached  the  toj)  of  the  plank  at  the 
same  moment,  and  with  the  old  tassel  of  his  cap  flashing  \\\  the  sun, 
and  one  hand  in  the  j)ocket  of  his  ilressing-gown,  with  the  other 
he  handed  the  young  lady  carefully  down  the  plank.  That  young 
lady  was  afterwards  my  grandmother  Titbottom. 

"  And  so,  over  tlie  gleaming  sea  whic'..  he  had  watched  so  long, 
and  wliich  seemed  thus  to  reward  his  patient  gaze,  came  his  bride 
that  sunny  morning. 

" '  Of  course  we  are  happy,'  he  used  to  say :  '  For  you  are  the 
gift  of  the  sun  1  have  1  )vc(l  so  long  and  so  well.'  And  my  grand- 
father Titbottom  \vould  '.ay  his  hand  so  tenderly  upon  the  golden 
hair  of  his  young  bride,  ihat  you  could  fancy  him  a  devout  Parsee 
caressing  sunbeams. 

"  There  were  endless  festivities  upon  occasion  of  the  marriage  ; 
and  my  grandfather  did  not  go  to  one  of  them  in  his  dressing- 
gown.  The  gentle  sweetness  of  his  wife  melted  every  heart  into 
love  and  sympathy.  He  was  much  older  than  she,  without  douV)t. 
But  age,  as  he  used  to  say  with  a  smile  of  immortal  youth,  is  a 
matter  of  feeling,  not  of  years.  And  if,  sometimes,  as  she  sat  by 
his  side  on  the  piazza,  her  fancy  looked  through  her  eyes  upon 
that  summer  sea  and  saw  a  younger  lover,  perhaps  some  one  of 
those  graceful  and  glowing  heroes  who  occupy  the  foreground  of 
all  young  maidens'  visions  by  the  sea,  yet  she  could  not  fuid  one 
more  generous  and  gracious,  nor  fancy  one  more  worthy  and  lov- 
ing than  my  grandfather  Titbottom.  And  if,  in  the  moonlit  mid- 
night, while  he  lay  calmly  sleeping,  she  leaned  out  of  the  window 
and  sank  into  vague  reveries  of  sweet  possibility,  and  watched  the 
gleaming  path  of  the  moonlight  upon  the  water,  until  the  dawn 
glided  over  it  —  it  was  only  that  mood  of  nameless  regret  and 
longing,  which  underlies  all  human  happiness,  or  it  was  the  vision 
of  that  life  of  society,  which  she  had  never  seen,  but  of  which  she 
had  olten  read,  and  which  looked  very  fair  and  alluring  across 
the  sea  to  a  girlish  imagination,  which  knew  that  it  should  never 
know  that  reality. 

[From  Titbottom' s  Spectacles,  in  Putnam's  Afni^azitie,  December,  1854;   after- 
■  wards  included  in    Piue  and  I,  1856,  Harper  and  Brothers.     The  text  is  thai 
of  the  original  article.] 


GEORGE    WILLIAM  CURTIS 


427 


istantly  ad- 
lank  at  the 
f  ill  the  sun, 
h  the  other 
That  young 

10(1  so  long, 
ne  his  bride 

you  are  the 
1  my  grand- 
i  the  golden 
:vout  Parsee 

e  marriage ; 
lis  dressing- 
y  heart  into 
thout  doubt. 
I  youth,  is  a 
IS  she  sat  by 
r  eyes  upon 
some  one  of 
oregroiind  of 
not  find  one 
thy  and  lov- 
noonlit  mid- 
■  the  window 
watched  the 
til  the  dawn 
s  regret  and 
as  the  vision 
of  which  she 
luring  across 
should  never 


)er,  1854;   after- 
rhe  text  is  thai 


THE  PURITAN   SPIRIT 

Whei.-  Elizabeth  died,  the  country  gentlemen,  the  great  traders 
in  the  towns,  the  sturdy  steadfast  middle  class,  the  class  from 
which  English  character  and  strength  have  sprung,  were  chiefly 
Puritans.  Puritans  taught  in  the  universities  and  sat  on  the 
thrones  of  bishops.  They  were  Peers  in  Parliament,  they  were 
Ambassailois  and  Secretaries  of  State.  Hutchinson,  graced  with 
every  accomplishmciU  of  the  English  gentleman,  was  a  Puritan, 
Sir  Henry  Vane,  by  whose  side  sat  justice,  was  a  Puritan.  John 
Hampden,  purest  of  patriots,  was  a  Puritan.  John  Pym,  greatest 
of  parliamentary  leaders,  was  a  Puritan.  A  fanatic?  Yes,  in  the 
high  sense  of  unchangeable  fidelity  to  a  sublime  idea ;  —  a  fanatic 
like  Columbus,  sure  of  a  western  passage  to  India  over  a  myste- 
rious ocean  which  no  mariner  had  ever  sailed ;  —  a  fanatic  like  Gali- 
leo, who  marked  the  courses  of  the  stars  and  saw,  despite  the 
jargon  of  authority,  tViat  still  the  earth  moved;  —  a  fanatic  like 
Joseph  Warren,  whom  the  glory  of  patriotism  transfigures  upon 
Bunker  Hill.  This  was  the  fanatic  who  read  the  Bible  to  the 
English  people  and  quickened  English  life  with  »he  fire  of  the 
primeval  faith;  who  smote  the  Spaniard  and  swept  the  pirates 
from  the  sea,  and  rode  with  Cromwell  and  his  Ironsides,  praising 
God  ;  who  to  the  utmost  shores  of  the  Mediterranean,  and  in  the 
shuddering  valleys  of  Piedmont,  to  every  religious  oppressor  and 
foe  of  England  made  the  name  of  England  terrible.  This  was 
the  ftinatic,  soft  as  sunshine  in  the  young  Milton,  blasting  in  Crom- 
well as  t!  thunder-bolt,  in  Endicott  austere  as  Calvin,  in  Roger 
Williams  benign  as  Melanchthon,  in  John  Robinson  foreseeing 
more  truth  to  break  t  h  from  God's  word.  In  all  history  do 
you  see  a  nobler  figure  ?  Forth  from  the  morning  of  Greece  come, 
Leoiiidas,  with  your  bravest  of  the  brave,  —  in  the  rapt  city  plead, 
Demosthenes,  your  country's  cause,  —  pluck,  Gracchus,  from 
aristocratic  Rome  its  crown,  —  speak,  Cicero,  your  magic  word,  — 
lift,  Cato,  your  admonishing  hand,  — and  you,  patriots  of  modern 
Europe,  be  all  gratefully  remembered  ;  —  but  where  in  the  earlier 
ages,  in  the  later  day,  in  lands  remote  or  near,  shall  we  find 
loftier  self-sacrifice,  more  unstained  devotion  to  worthier  ends, 


ii^eai'S^^^M: 


fe;i?-^3!^55UWf"'  ^"' 


IV 


ii 


428 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


issuing  in  happier  results  to  the  highest  interests  of  man,  than  in 
the  EngUsh  Puritan  ? 

He  apprehended  his.  own  principle,  indeed,  often  blindly,  often 
narrowly,  never  in  its  utmost  amplitude  and  splendor.  The  his- 
toric ?uritan  was  a  man  of  the  seventeenth  century,  not  of  the 
nineteenth.  He  saw  through  a  glass  darkly,  but  he  saw.  The 
acorn  is  not  yet  the  oak,  the  well-spring  is  not  yet  the  river.  But 
as  the  .'arvest  is  folded  in  the  seed,  so  the  largest  freedom  political 
and  religious,  —  liberty,  not  toleration,  not  permission,  not  endur- 
ance —  in  yonder  heaven  Cassiopeia  does  not  tolerate  Arcturus 
nor  the  clustered  Pleiades  permit  Orion  to  shine  —  the  right  of 
absolute  individual  liberty,  subject  only  to  the  equal  right  of 
others,  is  the  ripened  fruit  of  the  Puritan  principle. 

It  is  this  fact,  none  the  less  majestic  because  he  was  unconscious 
of  it,  which  invests  the  emigration  of  the  Puritan  to  this  country 
with  a  dignity  and  grandeur  that  belong  to  no  other  colonization. 
In  unfurling  his  sail  for  that  momentous  voyage  he  was  impelled 
by  no  passion  of  discovery,  no  greed  of  trade,  no  purpose  of  con- 
quest. He  was  the  most  practica',  the  least  romantic  of  men, 
but  he  was  allured  by  no  vision  of  worldly  success.  The  winds 
that  blew  the  Mayflower  over  the  sea  were  not  more  truly  airs 
from  heaven  than  the  moral  impulse  and  moral  heroism  which 
inspired  her  voyage.  Sebastian  Cabot,  Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  Fran- 
cis Drake  and  P'robisher,  Cortez  and  Ponce  de  Leon,  Champlain, 
bearing  southward  from  the  St.  Lawrence  the  lilies  of  France, 
Henry  Hudson  pressing  northward  from  Sandy  Hook  with  the 
flag  of  Holland,  sought  mines  of  gold,  a  profitable  trade,  the  foun- 
tain of  youth,  colonial  empire,  the  northwestern  passage,  a  shorter 
channel  to  Cathay.  But  the  Puritan  obeyed  solely  the  highest  of 
all  human  motives.  He  dared  all  that  men  have  ever  dared,  seek- 
ing only  freedom  to  worship  God.  Had  the  story  of  the  Puritan 
ended  with  the  landing  upon  Plymouth  Rock,  —  had  the  rigors  of 
that  first  winter  which  swept  away  half  of  the  Pilgrims  obliterated 
every  trace  of  the  settlement,  —  had  the  unnoted  Mayflower  sunk 
at  sea,  —  still  the  Puritan  story  would  have  been  one  of  the  noblest 
in  the  annals  of  the  human  race.  But  it  was  happily  developed 
into  larger  results,  and  the  Puritan,  changed  with  the  changing 
time,  adding  sweetness  to  strength,  and  a  broader  humanity  to 


-<s^ 


GEORGE    WILLIAM  CURTIS 


429 


lan,  than  in 

indly,  often 
.  The  his- 
,  not  of  the 

saw.  The 
river.  But 
am  poHtical 

not  endur- 
te  Arcturus 
he  right  of 
lal  right  of 

unconscious 
this  country 
:olonization. 
as  impelled 
)ose  of  con- 
tic  of  men, 

The  winds 
re  truly  airs 
roism  which 
ileigh,  Fran- 

Champlain, 

of  France, 
ok  with  the 
de,  the  foun- 
ge,  a  shorter 
le  highest  of 
dared,  seek- 

the  Puritan 
the  rigors  of 
s  obliterated 
'.yflower  sunk 
)f  the  noblest 
ly  developed 
;he  changing 
humanity  to 


moral  conviction   and   religious   earnestness,  was  reserved  for  a 
grander  destiny. 

The  Puritan  came  to  America  seeking  freedom  to  worship  God. 
He  meant  only  freedom  to  worship  God  in  his  own  way,  not  in 
the  Quaker  way,  not  in  the  Baptist  way,  not  in  the  Church  of 
England  way.  But  the  seed  that  he  brought  was  immortal.  His 
purpose  was  to  feed  with  it  his  own  barnyard  fowl,  but  it  quick- 
ened into  an  illimitable  forest  covering  a  continent  with  grateful 
sli.iJe,  the  home  of  every  bird  that  flies.  Freedom  to  worship 
God  is  universal  freedom,  a  free  state  as  well  as  a  free  church, 
and  that  was  the  inexorable  but  unconscious  logic  of  Puritanism. 
Holding  that  the  true  rule  of  religious  faith  and  worship  was 
written  in  the  Bible,  and  that  every  man  must  read  and  judge  for 
himself,  the  Puritan  conceived  the  church  as  a  body  of  indepen- 
dent seekers  and  interpreters  of  the  truth,  dispensing  with  priests 
and  priestly  orders  and  functions  ;  organizing  itself  and  calling  no 
man  master.  But  this  sense  of  equality  before  God  and  towards 
each  other  in  the  religious  congregation,  affecting  and  adjusting 
the  highest  and  most  enduring  of  all  human  relations,  that  of  man 
to  his  Maker,  applied  itself  instinctively  to  the  relation  of  man  to 
man  in  human  society,  and  thus  popular  government  flowed  out 
of  the  Reformation,  and  the  Republic  became  the  natural  political 
expression  of  Puritanism. 

See,  also,  how  the  course  and  circumstance  of  the  Puritan  story 
had  confirmed  this  tendency.  The  earliest  English  reformers, 
flying  from  the  fierce  reaction  of  Mary,  sought  freedom  in  the  im- 
memorial abode  of  freedom,  Switzerland,  whose  singing  waterfalls 
and  ranz  des  vaches  echoing  among  peaks  of  eternal  ice  and  shad- 
owy valleys  of  gentleness  and  repose,  murmured  ever  the  story  of 
Morgarten  and  Sempach,  the  oath  of  the  men  of  RUtli,  the  daring 
of  William  Tell,  the  greater  revolt  of  Zwingli.  There  was  Geneva, 
the  stern  republic  of  the  Reformation,  and  every  Alpine  canton 
was  a  republican  community  lifted  high  for  all  men  to  see,  a  light 
set  upon  a  hill.  How  beautiful  upon  the  mountains  were  the 
heralds  of  glad  tidings  !  This  vision  of  the  free  state  lingered  in 
the  Puritan  mind.  It  passed  in  tradition  from  sire  to  son,  and 
the  dwellers  in  Amsterdam  and  Leyden,  maintaining  a  republican 
Church,  unconsciously  became  that  republican  state  whose  living 


430 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


\    ,1 


:e 


beauty  tlieir  fathers  had  beheld,  and  whicli  they  saw  glorified, 
dimly  and  afar,  in  the  old  Alpine  vision. 

Banished,  moreover,  by  the  pitiless  iMiglish  persecution,  the 
Puritans,  exiles  and  poor  in  a  foreign  land,  a  colony  in  Holland 
before  they  were  a  colony  in  America,  were  compell  .-d  to  self-gov- 
ernment, to  a  common  sympathy  and  support,  to  bearing  one 
another's  burdens  ;  and  so,  by  the  stern  experience  of  actual  life, 
they  were  trained  in  the  virtues  most  essential  for  the  fulfilment 
of  their  august  but  unimagined  destiny.  The  patriots  of  the  Con- 
tinental Congress  seemed  to  Lord  Chatham  imposing  beyond  the 
law-givers  of  Greece  and  Rome.  The  Constitutional  Convention 
a  hunilred  years  ago  was  an  assembly  so  wise  that  its  accomplished 
work  is  reverently  received  by  continuous  generations,  as  the  chil- 
dren of  Israel  received  the  tables  of  the  law  which  Moses  brought 
down  from  the  Holy  Mount.  Happy,  thrice  happy  the  people 
which  to  such  scenes  in  their  history  can  add  the  simple  grandeur 
of  the  spectacle  in  the  cabin  of  the  Mayflower,  the  Puritans  sign- 
ing the  compact  which  was  but  the  formal  expression  of  the  gov- 
ernment that  voluntarily  they  had  established  —  the  scene  which 
makes  Plymouth  Rock  a  stepping-stone  from  the  freedom  of  the 
solitary  Alps  and  the  disputed  liberties  of  England  to  the  fully 
developed  constitutional  and  well-ordered  republic  of  the  United 
States. 

The  history  of  colonial  New  England  and  of  New  England  in 
the  Union  is  the  story  of  the  influence  of  the  Puritan  in  America. 
That  is  a  theme  too  alluring  to  neglect,  too  vast  to  be  attempted 
now.  But  even  in  passing  I  must  not  urge  a  claim  too  broad. 
Even  in  the  pride  of  this  hour,  and  with  the  consent  of  your 
approving  conviction  and  sympathy,  I  must  not  proclaim  that  the 
republic  like  a  conquering  goddess  sprang  from  the  head  fully 
armed,  and  that  the  head  was  New  England.  Yet  the  imperial 
commonwealth  of  which  we  are  citizens,  and  every  sister-State, 
will  agree  that  in  the  two  great  periods  of  our  history,  t';ie  colonial 
epoch  and  that  of  the  national  union,  the  influence  of  New  Eng- 
land has  not  been  the  least  of  all  influences  in  the  formative  and 
achieving  processes  towards  the  great  and  common  result.  The 
fondly  cherished  tradition  of  Hadley  may  be  doubted  and  dis- 
proved, but  like  the  legends  of  the  old  mythology  it  will  live  on, 


CROKCR    IVIUJAAf  CURTIS 


431 


w  glorified, 

cation,   the 
in  Holland 
to  self-gov- 
)earing  one 
■  actual  life, 
e  fulfilment 
of  the  Con- 
beyond  the 
Convention 
;complished 
as  the  chil- 
is es  brought 
the  people 
pie  grandeur 
aritans  sign- 
of  the  gov- 
scene  which 
idom  of  the 
to  the  fully 
the  United 

'  England  in 
in  America. 
le  attempted 
n  too  broad, 
sent  of  your 
laim  that  the 
e  head  fully 
the  imperial 
sister- State, 
,  t';ie  colonial 
if  New  Eng- 
ormative  and 
result.  The 
ted  and  dis- 
;  will  live  on, 


glowing  and  palpitating  with  essential  truth.     It  may  be  that  we 
must  surrender  the  story  of  the  villagers  upon  the  Connecticut 
sorely  beset  by  Indians  at  mid-day  and  about  to  yield ;   perhaps 
no  actual,  venerable  form  appears  with  flowing  hair,  — like  that 
white  plume  of  conquering  Navarre,  —  and  with  martial  mien  and 
voice  of  command  rallies  the  despairing  band,  cheering  them  on 
to  victory,  then  vanishing  in  air.     The  heroic  legend  may  be  a 
fable,  but  none  the  less  it  is  the  Puritan  who  marches  in  the  van 
of  our  characteristic  history,  it  is  the  subtle  and  penetrating  in- 
fluence of  New  England  which  has  been  felt  in  every  part  of  our 
national  life,  as  the  cool  wind  blowing  from  her  pine-clad  moun- 
tains  breathes   a   loftier   inspiration,  a  health   more   vigorous,  a 
fresher  impulse,  upon  her  own   green  valleys  and   happy  fields. 
See  how  she  has  diffused  her  population.     Like  the  old  statues 
of  the  Danube  and  the  Nile,  figures  reclining  upon  a  reedy  shore 
and  from  exhaustless  urns  pouring  water  which  flows  abroad  in  a 
thousand  streams  of  benedictioii,  so  has  New  England  sent  forth 
her  children.     Fc-llowing   the  sun  westward,  across  the  Hudson 
and  the  Mohawk  .•'nd  the  Susquehanna,  over  the  AUeghanies  into 
the  valley  of  the  Mississippi,  over  the  Sierra  Nevada  to  the  Pacific 
Ocean,  the  endless  procession  from  New  England  has  moved  for 
a  century,  bearing  everywhere  Puritan  principle,  Puritan  enter- 
prise, and  Puritan  thrift.     A  hundred  years  ago  New-Englanders 
passed  beyond  the  calm  Dutch  Arcadia  upon  the  Mohawk,  and 
striking  into  the  primeval  forest  of  the  ancient  Iroquois  domain 
began  the  settlement  of  central  New  York.     A  little  later,  upon 
the  Genesee,  settlers  from  Maryland  and  Pennsylvania  met,  but 
the  pioneers  from  New  England  took  the  firmest  hold  and  left  the 
deepest  and  most  permanent  impression.    A  hundred  years  ago 
there  was  no  white  settlement  in  Ohio.     But  in  1 789  the  seed  of 
Ohio  was  carried  from  Massachusetts,  and  from  the  loins  of  the 
great  Eastern  commonwealth  sprang  the  first  great  commonwealth 
of  the  West.     Early  in  the  century  a  score  of  settlements  beyond 
the  AUeghanies  bore  the  name  of  Salem,  the  spot  where  first  in 
America  the  Puritans  of  Massachusetts  Bay  set  foot ;  and  in  the 
dawn  of  the  Revolution  the  hunters  in  the  remote  valley  of  the 
Elkhorn,  hearing  the  news  if  the  19th  of  April,  called  their  camp 
Lexington,  and  thus,  in  the  1  -sponse  of  their  heroic  sympathy,  the 


i8K. 


432 


AMERICAN  rKOSK 


\  If 


Puritan  of  New  England  named  the  early  capital  of  Kentncky. 
But  happier  still,  while  yet  the  threat  region  of  the  Northw  jst  lay 
in  primeval  wilderness  awaiting  the  creative  touch  that  should  lift 
it  into  civilization,  it  was  the  Puritan  instinct  which  fulfilled  the 
aspiration  of  Jefferson,  and  by  the  Ordinance  of  1787  consecrated 
the  Northwest  to  freedom.  So  in  the  civilization  of  the  country 
has  New  England  been  a  pioneer,  and  so  deeply  upon  American 
life  and  institutions  has  the  genius  of  New  England  impressed 
itself  that  in  the  great  civil  war  the  peculiar  name  of  the  New- 
Englander,  the  Yankee,  became  the  distinguishing  title  of  the 
soldier  of  the  Union  ;  the  national  cause  was  the  Yankee  cause ; 
and  a  son  of  the  West,  born  in  Kentucky  and  a  citizen  of  Illinois, 
who  had  never  seen  New  England  twice  in  his  life,  became  the 
chief  representative  Yankee,  and  with  his  hand,  strong  with  the 
will  of  the  people,  the  Puritan  principle  of  liberty  and  equal  rights 
broke  the  chains  of  a  race.  New  England  characteristics  have 
become  national  qualities.  The  blood  of  New  England  flows  with 
energizing,  modifying,  progressive  power  in  the  veins  of  every 
State  ;  and  the  undaunted  spirit  of  the  Puritan,  sic  semper  tyrannis, 
animates  the  continent  from  sea  to  sea. 

[From  an  oration  delivered  at  the  unveiling  of  a  bronze  statue  of  the  "  Pil- 
grim," in  Central  Park,  New  York  City,  June  6,  1885.  Printe<l  in  Unveiling 
of  the  Pilgrim  Statue  hy  the  New  England  Soci.ly  in  the  City  of  Nnv  York. 
Afterwarils  included  in  Orations  and  AJiires'ses,  Harper  and  Urothers,  1894, 
vol.  i.    The  text  is  tiiat  of  the  original  publication.] 


m 


Kentucky, 
rthw-'st  lay 
should  lift 
iimiled  the 
onsecrated 
he  country 
I  American 
impressed 
the  Nevv- 
itie  of  the 
kee  cause  j 
of  Illinois, 
)ecame  the 
g  with  the 
:qual  rights 
ristics  have 
1  flows  with 
IS  of  every 
!•;-  tyrannis, 


'.  of  the  "  Pil- 
in  Uitvfiling 
of  Nevi  York. 
rutherH,  1894, 


FRANCIS    PARKMAN 

[Francis  rarkman  was  liorn  in  Boston,  Sept.   16,  1823,  and  died  at  hi» 
country  house  in  Jamaica  Plain,  one  of  the  suliurlis  of  Boston,  Nov.  8,  1893. 
His  ancestors  had  for  several  generations  been  honoral)ly  known  in  Massa- 
chusetts.    Much  of  Francis  I'arkman's  early  life  was  spent  in   the  woods. 
The   home   of  his   maternal   grandfather,  Nathaniel    Hall  of  Medford,  was 
situateil  on  the  border  of  the  Middlesex  Fells,  a  superli  piece  of  wild  and 
savage  woodland,  4000  acres  in  extent,  within   eight  miles  of  Boston.    As 
the  boy's  health  was  not  robust,  he  was  allowed  to  spend  much  of  his  time 
in  this  enchanting  solitude,  and  learned  there  the  craft  of  huntsman  and 
trapper.     He  was  graduated  at  Harvard  in   1844,  with   high   rank.     While 
in  college  he  spent  st.cral  months  in  a  journey  in  Europe,  and  afterward, 
in  1846,  he  trave.'h  >    I.i  the  Rocky  Mountain  region,  in  what  was  then  a 
howling  wilderr.css,  and  lived  for  some  time  in  a  village  of  Sioux  Indians  of 
the  Ogillalab  tribe,  whose  acquaintance  with  white  men  was  but  slight.    A 
graphic  account  of  this  wild  experience  was  given  in  Parkman's  first  book. 
The  Oregon  Trail,  published  in  1847.    Some  time  afterward  he  published  a 
historical  novel,  Vassall  Morion,  which  had  not  much  success.     In  1851  he 
published  the  first  of  his  great  series  of  histories,  The  Conspiracy  of  Pontiac. 
This  remarkable  book,  though  Ji.-  first  to  be  published,  was  in  its  subject 
the  last  of  the  series  to  which  it  belongs,  and  which,  with  their  dates  of  publi- 
cation, are  as  follows:    Pioneers  of  France  in  the  New  IVor/.l  (^iSGs),  The 
Jesuits  in  North  America  (1867),  La  Salle  and  the  Discovery  of  the  Great 
lVest(lB6<)),  The  Old  Regime  in  Canada  (1874),  Count  Frontenac  and  New 
France  under  Louis  XIV.  (1877),  A  Half  Century  of  Conflict  (1892),  Mont- 
calm  and  Wolfe  (1884).     It  will  be  observed  that  the  last-named  work,  the 
climax  of  the  series,  was  completed  before  the  less  important  one  which  pre- 
cedes it.  .         r  1 
Mr.  Parkman  was  eminent  in  the  culture  of  roses,  and  author  of  a  work 
entitled    The  Book  of  Roses  (1866).     He  was  president  of  the  Horticultural 
Society,  and  was  at  one  time  Professor  of  Horticulture  in  Harvard  University. 
He  was  afterward  an  Overseer  and  finally  a  Fellow  of  the  University.    No 
biography  of  him  has  as  yet  been  published  except  the  brief  sketch  by  the 
present  writer,  prefixed  to  the  revised  and  illustrated  edition  of  his  complete 
works,  in  twenty  volumes  (Boston,  1897-1898).] 

The  significance  of  Parkman  in  literary  history  lies  chiefly  in 
the  fact  that  he  was  the  first  great  American  historian  to  deal  on 


2F 


433 


■H 


(!ii 


I 


.||. 


434 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


a  large  scale  with  American  thenies.  Two  men  of  genius  before 
him  had  taken  subjects  from  the  ever  fascinating  age  of  naritine 
discovery.  Seventy  years  ago  Washington  Irving  published  a 
biography  of  CoUimbus  which  still  remains  without  a  worthy  rival 
in  any  language  ;  in  his  life  of  Washington  the  same  writer  was 
less  successful.  I'rcscjtt's  narratives  of  Spanish  conquest  in  Mex 
ico  and  I'eru,  extremely  brilliant  but  inadequate  and  misleading 
because  of  the  writer's  imperfect  acquaintance  with  American 
archaiology,  barely  apjjroach  the  threshold  of  American  history, 
properly  so  called.  Our  oi\ly  other  historian  of  genius  occupied 
liimself  with  the  noble  story  of  the  Netherlands  and  their  war  of 
'idepf^niience.  For  Ameri<  an  history  one  had  to  choose  between 
the  jejune  registialion  of  llildreth  and  the  vapid  rhetoric  of  Ban- 
croft. Far  above  such  writers  we  must  rank  I'alfrey,  in  spite  of 
his  one-sidedness ;  but  his  work,  though  excellei.l,  is  without  gen- 
ius ;  it  does  not  clothe  with  warm  llesh  and  red  blood  the  dry 
bones  of  the  past.  Before  Parknian  wrote  it  used  commonly  to 
be  said,  either  that  our  country  had  no  history,  or  else  that  such 
as  it  had  w  evoid  of  romantic  interest.  What !  Two  and  a 
half  ce "•turies,  more  crowded  with  incident  and  richer  in  records 
than  my  that  had  gme  before,  and  yet  no  hiitory  !  A  leading 
race  of  men  thrust  into  a  savage  wilderness,  to  work  out  a  new 
civilization  under  these  strange  conditions,  and  yet  no  romantic 
interest !  Truly  the  history  was  th  re,  and  tiic  romance  was 
there,  only  it  needed  the  touch  of  tiie  artist  to  bring  it  out.  So  it 
might  have  seemed  in  Dr.  Johnson's  day  that  there  was  but  little 
of  interest  in  Britain  north  of  the  Tweed,  but  the  enchant 'T,  Scott, 
forever  dispelled  such  a  monstrous  illusion. 

The  first  thing  that  strikes  us  in  reading  Parkman's  books  is 
their  picturesqueness.  But  they  .ire  equally  remarkable  for  their 
minute  accuracy  and  for  their  wealth  of  knowledge.  For  patient 
and  careful  research  Parknian  has  never  been  excelled  by  aiiy 
of  the  Dryasdust  family.  He  would  follow  up  a  clew  with  the 
tenacity  of  a  sleuth-hound.  It  was  very  rarely  that  anything  es- 
caped him,  and  it  is  but  seldom  that  the  most  jealous  criticism 
has  detected  a  weak  spot  in  his  statements  or  in  his  conclusions. 

Parkman's  accuracy,  indeed,  is  a  notable  element  of  his  pictur- 
esqueness.     His  descriptions  are  vivid  because  in  every  small 


mm 


mm 


n\\\%  before 
of  maritime 
published  a 
worthy  rival 
c  writer  was 
lest  in  Mex 

misleading 
1  American 
can  history, 
us  occupied 
their  war  of 
ose  between 
jric  of  Ban- 
',  in  spite  of 
vithout  gen- 
ood  the  dry 
omnionly  to 
se  that  such 

'I'wo  and  a 
:r  in  records 
A  leading 
k  out  a  new 
no  romantic 
oniancc  was 
t  out.  So  it 
ivas  but  little 
lanlfr,  Scott, 

m's  books  is 
ible  for  their 

For  patient 
:lled  by  awy 
ew  with  the 
anything  es- 
nus  criticism 
onclusions. 
of  his  pictur- 

every  small 


FRANC rs  PAKKMAN 


435 


detail  they  are  true  to  life.     His  preparati(»n  for  his  subject  was 
admirable.     It  grew  naturally  out  of  his  early  wanderings  in  the 
Middlesex   Fells.     A  passionate  love  of  wild  nature  took  posses- 
sioi\  of  him,  and   ni  youth  he  lonceived  the  plan  of  writmg  the 
history  uf  the  Anuncan  wilderness,  and  the  mighty  struggle  be- 
tween {•'rciH  hmen  and  Knglishmen  for  the  masterv  of  it.     This 
struggle  between  political  despotism  and  political  liberty  for  the 
possession  of  such  a  vast  area  of  virgin  soil  for  future  growth  and 
ex|)ansi()ii  gives  to  the  theme  an  epic  grandeur.     For  dealing  with 
such  a  subject   lirkman  prepared  himself  by  various  experiences. 
Though  his  sojourn  with  a  wild  tribe  of  Sioux  in  1846  was  not 
long,  yet  he  brought  away  from  it  knowledge  of  the  highest  value, 
for  his  faculty  of  observation  was  as  keen  as  that  of  any  naturalist. 
On  his  first  journc\    in  Europe,  during  his  college  days,  he  had 
spent  several  weeks  in  a  n  onastery  of  I'assionists  at  Rome,  and 
what  he  saw  there  must  have  been  of  infinite  service  to  him  in 
studying  the  I  ilmrs  of  Jesuits  and  F/anciscans  in  the  New  World. 
The  next  thing  in  order  was  to  study  history  at  its  sources,  and 
this  involved  much  tedious  i\ploi..tion  and  several  journeys  in 
Europe.     A  notable  monument  of  this  research  exists  in  a  cabinet 
now   standing   in    the    library   of    the    Massachusetts    Historical 
Society,  containing  nearly  two  hundred  folio  volumes  of  docu- 
ments transcribed  from  the  originals  by  expert  copyists.     Ability 
to  incur  he.ivy  expense  is  a  prerequisite  for  such  undertakings, 
and  herein  our  historian  was  favored   by  fortune.     Against   this 
great  advantage  were  to  be  offset  the  hardships  entailed  by  deli- 
cate health  and  inability  to  use  the  eyes  for  reading  and  writing. 
Parkman  always  dictated  instead  of  holding  the  pen,  and  his  huge 
mass  of  documents  in  French,  Italian,  I>atin,  and  other  languages, 
had  to  be  read  aloud  to  him,  while  it  was  but  seldom  that  he 
could  work  lu    more  than  half  an  hour  without  stopping  to  take  a 
long  rest.     Tiie  heroism  shown  year  after  year  in  contending  with 
physical  ailments  was  the  index  of  a  character  fit  to  be  mated,  for 
its  pertinacious  courage,  with  t  le  heroes  that  live  in  his  shining 
pages. 

Parkman's  descriptions  seem  like  the  reports  of  an  eyewitness. 
The  realism  is  so  strong  that  the  author  seems  to  have  come  in 
person  fresh  from  the  scenes  he  describes,  with  the  smoke  of  the 


.,„*«»!»,-!?*s^?K»»*^^^^; 


|4 


^■■P 


f 


im^ 


43^' 


AMF.KICAN  PKOSE 


battle  hovcrinn  alxHit  him  and  its  fierce  light  glowing  in  his  eyes. 
I'arkinan  liid  not  fei-l  ready  to  write  until  he  had  visited  nearly  all 
the  localities  that  form  the  scenery  of  his  story,  ami  studied  liietn 
with  the  patience  of  a  surveyor  and  the  discerning  eye  of  a  land 
scape  painter.  His  love  of  naUire  added  keen  zest  to  this  sort  of 
work.  'I'o  sleep  under  the  open  sky  was  his  delight,  and  his 
books  fairly  reek  with  the  fragrance  of  pine  woods. 

Hut  except  for  I'arkman's  inborn  temperament  all  his  micro- 
scopic industry  would  have  availed  him  but  little.  To  use  his 
own  worils,  "  l-aithfulness  to  the  truth  of  history  involves  far  more 
than  a  research,  however  patient  and  scrupulous,  into  special  facts. 
Such  facts  may  be  detailed  with  the  most  minute  exactness,  and 
yet  the  narrative,  taken  as  a  whole,  may  be  unmeaning."  These 
are  words  which  the  mere  Dryasdust  can  never  comprehend  ;  yet 
they  are  golden  words  for  the  student  of  the  historical  art  to 
ponder.  To  make  a  truthful  record  of  a  vanishetl  age,  patient 
scholarship  is  needed,  and  something  more.  Into  the  making  of 
a  historian  there  should  enter  something  of  the  naturalist,  some- 
thing of  the  poet,  and  something  of  the  philosopher.  Seldom  has 
this  union  of  qualities  been  realized  in  such  a  high  degree  as  in 
Parkman. 

His  philosophic  habit  of  mind  is  seen  in  all  his  books,  but  it  may 
best  be  studied  in  The  Old  Rcf^imc  in  Canada.  The  fate  of 
a  nationalistic  experiment,  set  on  foot  by  one  of  the  most  abso- 
lute of  monarchs  and  fostered  by  one  of  the  most  devoted  and 
powerful  of  religious  organizations,  is  traced  to  the  operation  of 
causes  inherent  in  its  very  nature.  These  pages  are  alive  with 
philosopliy  and  teem  with  object-lessons  of  extraordinary  value. 

Free  industrial  England  pitted  against  despotic  militant  France 
for  the  possession  of  an  ancient  continent  reserved  from  the  begin- 
ning of  time  for  this  decisive  struggle,  and  dragging  into  the 
conflict  the  belated  barbarism  of  the  Stone  Age,  — such  is  the 
wonderful  theme  which  Parkman  has  treated.  Thus,  while  of  all 
our  historians  he  is  the  most  deeply  and  peculiarly  American,  he 
is  at  the  same  time  the  broadest  and  most  cosmopolitan.  His 
work  is  for  all  time,  and  the  more  aduiuately  men's  historic  per- 
spective gets  adjusted,  the  greater  will  it  seem. 

John  Fiske 


in  his  eyes, 
id  nearly  all 
;u(lied  Uicm 
c  of  a  lam! 
lliis  sort  ot 
;ht,  and  his 

1  his  micro- 
I'o  use  his 
/es  fiir  more 
special  facts, 
ictness,  and 
ig."  These 
•ehend ;  yet 
•rical  art  to 
age,  patient 
c  making  of 
ralist,  some- 
Seldom  has 
degree  as  in 

:s,  but  it  may 
The  fate  of 
most  abso- 
devoted  and 
operation  of 
e  alive  with 
lary  value, 
litant  Trance 
m  the  begin- 
ng  into  the 
-such  is  the 
i,  while  of  all 
Unerican,  he 
)olitan.  His 
historic  per- 

3HN    FiSKE 


I-h'AM/S  PAHKAfAy  437 


TllK    m.ACK    HII.I.S 

To  nit  on  rocks,  tu  muse  o'l-r  IIddiI  ami  foil, 
To  »luwly  tract'  tlif  fDfost'*  shady  scene, 
Wlii.rc  thinn'*  llii>l  "\*''>  ""'  iii.in's  iKmiinion  dwell, 
Ai\d  mortal  Innt  hath  ne'er  ur  rarely  lieen  ; 
Til  elimli  the  IracUless  mountain  all  unseen. 
With  the  wild  llneU  that  never  needs  a  fold  ; 
Alone  o'er  steeps  and  foamy  falls  to  lean  ; 
Tliit  is  not  solitude;  'tis  l>ut  to  hold 

Converse  with  Nature's  charms,  and  view  her  storei  unrolled. 

ChiUc  Harold 

Wk  travelled  eastward  for  two  days,  .-rnd  then  the  gloomy  riilgcs 
of  the  lilack  Hills  rose  up  before  us.  The  village  passed  along 
for  some  miles  beneath  their  declivities,  trailing  out  to  a  great 
length  over  the  arid  prairie,  or  winding  at  times  among  small 
detached  hills  of  distorted  shapes.  Turning  sharply  to  the  left, 
we  entered  a  wide  defile  of  the  mountains,  down  the  bottom  of, 
which  a  brook  came  winding,  lined  with  tall  grass  and  dense 
copses,  amid  which  were  hidden  many  beaver-dams  and  lodges. 
We  passed  along  between  two  lines  of  high  precipices  and  rocks, 
piled  in  disorder  one  upon  another,  with  scarcely  a  tree,  a  bush, 
or  a  clump  of  grass  to  veil  their  nakedness.  Hie  restless  Indian 
boys  were  wandering  along  their  edges  and  clambering  up  and 
down  their  rugged  sides,  and  sometimes  a  group  of  them  would 
stand  on  the  verge  of  a  cliff  and  look  down  on  the  array  as  it 
passed  in  review  beneath  them.  As  we  advanced,  the  passage 
grew  more  narrow;  then  it  suddenly  expanded  into  a  round 
grassy  meadow,  completely  encompassed  by  mountains;  and  here 
the  families  stopped  as  they  came  up  in  turn,  and  the  camp  rose 
like  magic. 

The  lodges  were  hardly  erected  when,  with  their  usual  precipi- 
tation, the  Indians  set  about  accomplishing  the  object  that  had 
brought  them  there;  that  is,  the  obtaining  poles  for  their  new 
lodges.  Half  the  population,  men,  women,  and  boys,  mounted 
their  horses  and  set  out  for  the  interior  of  the  motmtains.  As 
they  rode  at  full  gallop  over  the  shingly  rocks  and  into  the  da;-k 


aagat«aatow^*)MatBaj)i8a!ig»i»^/:--fe9^^ 


438 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


opening  of  the  defile  beyond,  I  thought  I  had  never  read  or 
dreamed  of  a  more  strange  or  pictures(Hic  cavalcade.  We  passed 
between  precii)iccs,  sharp  and  splintering  at  the  tops,  their  sides 
beetling  over  the  defile  or  descending  in  abrupt  declivities, 
bristling  with  black  fir-trees.  On  our  leit  they  rose  close  to  us 
like  a  wall,  but  on  the  right  a  winding  brook  with  a  narrow  strip 
of  marshy  soil  intervened.  The  stream  was  clogged  with  old 
beaver-dams,  and  spread  frequently  into  wide  pools.  There  were 
thick  bushes  and  many  dead  and  blasted  trees  along  its  course, 
though  frecpiently  nothing  remained  but  stumps  cut  close  to  the 
ground  by  the  beaver,  and  marked  with  the  sharp  chisel-like 
teeth  of  those  indefatigable  laborers.  Sometimes  we  were  diving 
among  trees,  and  then  emerging  upon  open  spots,  over  which, 
Indian-like,  all  galloped  at  full  speed.  As  Pauline  bounded  over 
the  rocks  I  felt  her  saddle-girth  slipping,  and  alighted  to  draw  it 
tighter;  when  the  whole  array  swept  past  me  in  a  moment,  the 
women  with  their  gaudy  ornaments  tinkling  as  they  rode,  the 
men  whooping,  and  laughing,  and  lashing  forward  their  horses. 
Two  black-tailed  dee;-  bounded  away  among  the  rocks;  Raymond 
fnot  at  them  from  horseback;  the  sharp  report  of  his  rifle  was 
answered  by  another  equally  sharp  from  the  opposing  cliffs,  and 
then  the  echoes,  leaping  in  rapid  succession  from  side  to  side, 
died  away  rattling,  far  amid  the  mountains. 

After  having  ridden  in  this  manner  for  six  or  eight  miles,  the 
appearance  of  the  scene  began  to  change,  and  all  the  declivities 
around  us  were  covered  with  forests  of  tall,  slender  pine  trees. 
The  Indians  began  to  fall  off  to  the  right  and  left,  and  dispersed 
with  their  hatchets  and  knives  among  these  woods,  to  cut  the 
poles  which  they  had  come  to  seek.  Soon  I  was  left  almost 
alone;  but  in  the  deep  stillness  of  those  lonely  mountains,  the 
stroke  of  hatchets  and  the  sound  of  voices  might  be  heard  from 
far  and  near. 

Reynal,  who  imitated  the  Indians  in  their  habits  as  well  as  the 
worst  features  of  their  character,  had  killed  buffalo  enough  to 
make  a  lodge  for  himself  and  his  squaw,  and  now  he  was  eager 
to  get  the  poles  necessary  to  complete  it.  He  asked  me  to  let 
Raymond  go  with  him,  and  assist  in  the  work.  I  assented,  and 
the  two  men  immediately  entered  the  thickest  part  of  the  wood. 


Si' 


tama^smmmmmmmmfimmmim' 


i 


ever  read  or 
We  passed 
)s,  their  sides 
t  declivities, 
se  close  to  us 
L  narrow  strip 
ged  with  old 
There  were 
ng  its  course, 
t  close  to  the 
p  chisel-like 
e  were  diving 
,  over  which, 
bounded  over 
ted  to  draw  it 

moment,  the 
hey  rode,  the 

their  horses, 
ks;  Raymond 
■  his  rifle  was 
ing  cliffs,  and 

side  to  side, 

ght  miles,  the 
he  declivities 
;r  pine  trees, 
and  dispersed 
Is,  to  cut  the 
is  left  almost 
lountains,  the 
)e  heard  from 

as  well  as  the 
ilo  enough  to 
he  was  eager 
iked  me  to  let 
assented,  and 
of  the  wood. 


FHANCIS  PARKMAN 


439 


Having  left  my  horse  in  Raymond's  keeping,  I  began  to  climb 
the  mountain.  I  was  weak  and  weary,  and  made  slow  progress, 
often  pausing  to  rest,  but  after  an  hour  I  gained  a  height,  whence 
the  little  valley  out  of  which  I  had  climbed  seemed  like  a  deep, 
dark  gulf,  though  the  inaccessible  peak  of  the  mountain  was  still 
towering  to  a  much  greater  distance  above.  Objects  familiar 
from  childhood  surrounded  me;  crags  and  rocks,  a  black  and 
sullen  brook  that  gurgled  with  a  hollow  voice  deep  among  the 
crevices,  a  wood  of  mossy  distorted  trees  and  prostrate  trunks 
flung  down  by  age  and  storms,  scattered  among  the  rocks,  or 
damming  the  foaming  waters  of  the  little  brook.  The  objects 
were  the  same,  yet  they  were  thrown  into  a  wilder  and  more 
startling  scene,  for  the  black  crags  and  the  savage  trees  assumed 
a  grim  and  threatening  aspect,  and  close  across  the  valley  the 
opposing  mountain  confronted  me,  rising  from  the  gulf  for  thou- 
sands of  feet  with  its  bare  pinnacles  and  its  ragged  covering  of 
pines.  Yet  the  scene  was  not  without  its  milder  features.  As  I 
ascended,  I  found  frequent  little  grassy  terraces,  and  there  was 
one  of  these  close  at  hand,  across  which  the  brook  was  stealing, 
beneath  the  shade  of  scattered  trees  that  seemed  artificially 
planted.  Here  I  made  a  welcome  discovery,  no  other  than  a 
bed  of  strawberries,  with  their  white  flowers  and  their  red  fruit, 
close  nestled  among  the  grass  by  the  side  of  the  brook,  and  I  sat 
down  by  them,  hailing  them  as  old  acquaintances;  for  among 
those  lonely  and  perilous  mountains,  they  awakened  delicious 
associations  of  the  gardens  and  peaceful  homes  of  far-distant 
New-England. 

Yet  wild  as  they  were,  these  mountains  were  thickly  peopled. 
As  I  climbed  further,  I  found  the  broad,  dusty  paths  made  by  the 
elk,  as  they  filed  across  the  mountain  side.  The  grass  on  all  the 
terraces  was  trampled  down  by  deer;  there  were  numerous  tracks 
of  wolves,  and  in  some  of  the  rougher  and  more  precipitous 
parts  of  the  ascent,  I  found  foot-prints  different  from  any  that  I 
had  ever  seen,  and  which  I  took  to  be  those  of  the  Rocky  Moun- 
tain sheep.  I  sat  down  upon  a  rock ;  there  was  a  perfect  still- 
ness. No  wind  was  stirring,  and  not  even  an  insect  could  be 
heard.  I  recollected  the  danger  of  becoming  lost  in  such  a 
place,  and  therefore  I  fixed  my  eye  upon  one  of  the  tallest  pin- 


IJ'^sB^^^!^**liiwi»*«a*»^!83»!«^^ 


'I.t 


440 


AMERICAN  PHOSE 


nacles  of  the  opposite  mountain.  It  rose  sheer  upright  from 
the  woods  below,  and  by  an  extraordinary  freak  of  nature,  sus- 
tained aloft  on  its  very  summit  a  large  loose  rock.  Such  a  land- 
mark could  ever  be  mistaken,  and  feeling  once  nure  secure,  1 
began  again  to  move  forward.  A  white  wolf  jumped  up  from 
among  some  bushes,  and  leaped  clumsily  away;  but  he  stopped 
for  a  moment,  and  turned  back  his  keen  eye  and  his  bristling 
muzzle.  I  longed  to  take  his  scalp  and  carry  it  back  with  me, 
as  an  appropriate  trophy  of  the  Black  Hills,  but  before  I  could 
fire,  he  was  gone  among  the  rocks.  Soon  after  I  heard  a  rustling 
sound,  with  a  cracking  of  twigs  ac  a  little  distance,  and  saw 
moving  above  the  tall  bushes  the  branching  antlers  of  an  elk.  I 
was  in  the  midst  of  a  hunter's  parai'ise. 

Such  are  the  Black  Hills,  as  I  found  them  in  July;  but  they 
wear  a  different  garb  when  winter  sets  in,  when  the  broad  boughs 
of  the  fir  tree  are  bent  to  the  ground  by  the  load  of  snow,  and 
the  dark  mountains  are  whitened  with  it.  At  that  season  the 
mountain-trappers,  returned  from  their  autumn  expeditions, 
often  build  their  rude  cabins  in  the  midst  of  these  olitudes,  and 
live  in  abundance  and  luxury  on  the  game  that  harbv  rs  there.  I 
have  heard  them  relate,  how  with  their  tawny  mistresses,  arid 
perhaps  a  few  young  Indian  companion^,  they  have  spent  months 
in  total  seclusion.  They  would  dig  pitfalls,  and  set  traps  for  the 
white  wolves,  the  sables,  and  the  martens,  and  though  through 
the  whole  night  the  awful  chorus  of  the  wolves  would  resound 
from  the  frozen  mountains  around  them,  yet  within  their  massive 
walls  of  logs  they  would  lie  in  careless  ease  and  comfort  before 
the  blazing  fire,  and  in  the  morning  shoot  the  elk  and  deer  from 
their  very  door. 

[From  The  California  and  Oregon  Trail:  being  Sketches  of  Prairie  and 
Rocky  Mountain  Life,  1849,  chapter  17,  "The  Black  Hills."  The  text  is  that 
of  the  first  edition,  which  is  in  certain  respects  preferable  to  that  of  the  author's 
revised  edition.] 

THE   AMERICAN    INDIAN 

Of  the  Indian  character,  much  has  been  written  foolishly,  and 
credulously  believed  3y  the  rhapsodies  of  poets,  the  cant  of 
sentimentalists,  and  the  extravagance  of  some  who  should  have 


SMMM 


FRANCIS  PARKMAN 


441 


ipright  from 
nalare,  sus- 
Such  a land- 
)re  secure,  I 
)ed  up  from 
;  he  stopped 
his  bristling 
ick  with  me, 
2  fore  I  could 
ird  a  rustling 
ice,  and  saw 
)f  an  elk.     I 

ily;  but  they 
broad  boughs 
of  snow,  and 
it  season  the 

expeditions, 
olitudes,  and 
)k  rs  there.  I 
istresses,  and 
spent  months 
t  traps  for  the 
ough  through 
ould  resound 

their  massive 
jmfort  before 
nd  deer  from 


s  of  Prairie  and 

The  text  is  that 

at  of  the  author's 


foolishly,  and 
3,  the  cant  of 
.0  should  have 


known  better,  a  counterfeit  image  has  been  tricked  out,  which 
might  seek  in  vain  for  its  likeness  through  every  corner  of  the 
habitable  earth;  an  image  bearing  no  more  resemblance  to  its 
original,  than  the  monarch  of  the  tragedy  and  the  hero  of  the 
epic  poem  bear  to  their  living  prototypes  in  the  palace  and  the 
camp.  The  shadows  of  his  wilderness  home,  and  the  darker 
mantle  of  his  own  inscrutable  reserve,  have  made  the  Indian 
warrior  a  wonder  and  a  mystery.  Yet  to  the  eye  of  rational  ob- 
servation there  is  nothing  unintelligible  in  him.  He  is  full,  it  is 
true,  of  coatraijiction.  He  deems  himself  the  centre  of  greatness 
and  renown;  his  pride  is  proof  against  the  fiercest  torments  of 
fire  and  steel;  and  yet  the  sam.e  man  would  beg  for  a  dram  of 
whiskey,  or  pick  up  a  crust  of  bread  thrown  to  him  like  a  dog, 
from  the  tent  door  of  the  traveller.  At  one  moment,  he  is  wary 
and  cautious  to  the  verge  of  cowardice;  at  the  next,  he  abandons 
himself  to  a  very  insanity  of  recklessness;  and  the  habitual  self- 
restraint  which  throws  an  impenetrable  veil  over  emotion  is 
joined  to  the  unbridled  passions  of  a  madman  or  a  beast. 

Such  inconsistencies,  strange  as  they  seem  in  our  eyes,  when 
viewed  under  a  novel  aspect,  arc  but  the  ordinary  incidents  of 
humanity.  The  qualities  of  the  mind  are  not  uniform  in  their 
action  through  all  the  relations  of  life.  With  different  men,  and 
different  races  of  men,  pride,  valor,  prudence,  have  different 
forms  of  manifestation,  and  where  in  one  instance  they  lie  dor- 
mant, in  another  they  are  keenly  awake.  The  conjunction  of 
greatness  and  littleness,  meanness  and  pride,  is  older  than  the 
days  of  the  patriarchs;  and  such  antiquated  phenomena,  dis- 
played undor  a  new  form  in  the  unreflecting,  undisciplined  mind 
of  a  savage,  call  for  no  special  wonder,  but  should  rather  be 
classed  with  the  other  enigmas  of  the  fathomless  human  heart. 
The  dissecting  knife  of  Rochefoucault  might  lay  bare  matters  of 
no  less  curious  observation  in  the  breast  of  every  man. 

Nature  has  stamped  the  Indian  with  a  hard  and  stern  physiog- 
nomy. Ambition,  revenge,  envy,  jealousy,  are  his  ruling  pas- 
sions; and  his  cold  temperament  is  little  exposed  to  those 
effeminate  vices  which  are  the  bane  of  milder  races.  With  him 
revenge  is  an  overpowering  instinct;  nay,  more,  it  is  a  point  of 
honor  and  a  duty.     His  pride  sets  all  language  at  defiance.     He 


■i^ms^^tmtA:^ 


tS^Hi^V' 


443 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


loathes  the  thought  of  coercion;  and  few  of  his  race  have  ever 
stoojied  to  discharge  a  menial  office.  A  wild  love  of  I.berty, 
an  utlir  intolerance  of  control,  lie  at  the  basis  of  his  character, 
and  five  his  whole  existence.  Yet,  in  spite  of  his  haughty  inde- 
pendence, he  isi\dcvm\>  hero-worshipper;  and  high  achievement 
in  war  or  policy  touches  a  chord  to  which  his  nature  never  fails 
to  respond,  lie  looks  \\\\  vnth  admiring  reverence  to  the  sages 
and  heroes  ol  his  ttibe,  and  it  is  this  principle,  joined  to  the 
Tes\iect  for  age  H\»ilnging  Ivom  the  patriarchal  element  in  his 
social  system,  which,  beyond  all  others,  contributes  union  and 
harmony  to  the  erratic  members  of  .in  Indian  community.  With 
l^\m  the  love  of  glory  kindles  into  i\  burning  passion;  and  to 
allay  its  cravings,  he  will  dare  cold  and  famine,  fire,  tempest, 
torture,  and  death  itself. 

These  generous  traits  are  overcast  by  much  that  is  dark,  cold 
and  sinister,  by  sleepless  distrust,  and  rankling  jealousy. 
Treacherous  himself,  he  is  always  suspicious  of  treachery  in 
others.  Brave  as  he  is,  —  and  few  of  mankind  are  braver,  —  he 
will  vent  his  passion  by  a  secret  'itab  rather  than  an  open  blow. 
His  warfare  is  full  of  ambuscade  and  stratagem;  and  he  never 
rushes  into  battle  with  that  joyous  self-abandonment,  with  which 
the  warriors  of  the  Gothic  ran  •  lUmg  themselves  into  the  ranks 
of  their  enemies.  In  his  (ta^ls  and  his  drinking  bouts  we  find 
none  of  that  robust  and  full-toned  mirth,  which  reigned  at  the 
nide  carousals  of  our  b.\»l>aric  ancestry.  He  is  never  jovial  in 
his  cups,  and  maudlin  borrow  or  maniacal  rage  is  the  sole  result 
of  his  potations. 

Over  all  emotion  he  throws  the  veil  of  an  iron  self  control, 
originating  in  a  |'v  culiar  form  of  pride,  and  fostered  by  rigorous 
discipline  from  childhood  upward.  He  is  trained  to  conceal  pas- 
sion, and  not  to  subdue  it.  'Jhe  inscrutable  warrior  is  aptly 
imaged  by  the  hackneyed  figure  of  a  volcano  covered  with  snow; 
and  IV)  man  can  say  when  or  where  the  wild-fire  will  burst  forth. 
This  shallow  self-mastery  serves  to  give  dignity  to  public  delib- 
eration, and  harmony  to  social  life.  Wrangling  and  quarrel  are 
strangers  to  an  Indian  dwelling;  and  while  an  assembly  of  the 
ancient  Gauls  was  garrulous  as  a  convocation  of  magpies,  a  Roman 
bcnate  might  have  taken  a  lesson  from  the  grave  solemnity  of  an 


^' 


■-:,Std»,l|..- 


w: 


FRANCIS  PARKMAN 


443 


have  "^ver 
of  liberty, 

character, 
ghty  inde- 
hievement 
never  fails 
0  the  sages 
lied  to  the 
ent  in  his 
union  and 
ity.  With 
)n;  and  to 
2,  tempest, 

dark,  cold 
;  jealousy, 
eachery  in 
raver,  —  he 
jpen  blow, 
id  he  never 
with  which 
)  the  ranks 
uts  we  find 
gned  at  the 
;r  jovial  in 
?  sole  result 

lelf  control, 
by  rigorous 
:onceal  pas- 
or  is  aptly 

with  snow; 
burst  forth, 
nblic  delib- 

quarrel  are 
mbly  of  the 
es,  a  Roman 
ponity  of  an 


Indian  council.  In  the  midst  of  his  family  and  friends,  he  hides 
affections,  by  nature  none  of  the  most  tender,  under  a  mask  of 
icy  coldness;  and  in  the  torturing  fires  of  his  enemy,  the  haughty 
sufferer  maintains  to  the  last  his  look  of  grim  defiance. 

His  intellect  is  as  peculiar  as  his  moral  organization.  A  ong 
all  savages,  the  powers  of  perception  preponderate  over  those  of 
reason  and  analysis;  but  this  is  more  especially  the  case  with 
the  Indian.  An  acute  judge  of  character,  at  least  of  such  parts 
of  it  as  his  experience  enables  him  to  comprehend;  keen  to  a 
proverb  in  all  exercises  of  war  and  the  chase,  he  seldom  traces 
effects  to  their  causes,  or  follows  out  actions  to  their  remote 
results.  Though  a  close  observer  of  external  nature,  he  no  sooner 
attempts  to  account  for  her  phenomena  than  he  involves  himself 
in  the  most  ridiculous  absurdities;  and  quite  content  with  these 
puerilities,  he  has  not  the  least  desire  to  push  his  inquiries 
further.  His  curiosity,  abundantly  active  within  its  own  narrow 
circle,  is  dead  to  all  things  else;  and  to  attempt  rousing  it  from 
its  torpor  is  but  a  bootless  task.  He  seldom  takes  cognizance 
of  general  or  abstract  ideas;  and  his  language  has  scarcely  the 
power  to  express  them,  except  through  the  medium  of  figures 
drawn  from  the  external  world,  and  often  highly  picturesque  and 
forcible.  The  absence  of  reflection  makes  him  grossly  improvi- 
dent, and  unfits  him  for  pursuing  any  complicated  scheme  of  war 
or  policy. 

Some  races  of  men  seem  moulded  in  wax,  soft  and  melting,  at 
once  plastic  and  feeble.  Some  races,  like  some  metals,  combine 
the  greatest  flexibility  with  the  greatest  strength.  But  the  Indian 
is  hewn  out  of  a  rock.  You  can  rarely  change  the  form  without 
destruction  of  the  substance.  Races  of  inferior  energy  have  pos- 
sessed a  power  of  expansion  and  assimilation  to  which  he  is  a 
stranger;  and  it  is  this  fixed  and  rigid  quality  which  has  proved 
his  ruin.  He  will  not  learn  the  arts  of  civilization,  and  he  and 
his  forest  must  perish  together.  The  stern,  unchanging  features 
of  his  mind  excite  our  admiration  from  their  very  immutability; 
and  we  look  with  deep  interest  on  the  fate  of  this  irreclaimable 
son  of  the  wilderness,  the  child  who  will  not  be  weaned  from  the 
breast  of  his  rugged  mother.  And  our  interest  increases  when 
we  discern  in  the  unhappy  wanderer  the  germs  of  heroic  virtues 


3  . 


"itftSiSiJi 


iar^KiSffiwi£if.-^?^*te*-i«i^'  cvi^K 


nUNifa^-^r.^^' 


444 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


mingled  among  his  vices,  —  a  hand  bountiful  to  bestow  as  it  is 
rapacious  to  seize,  and  even  in  extremest  famine,  imparling  its 
last  morsel  to  a  fellow-sufferer;  a  heart  which,  strong  in  friend- 
ship as  in  hate,  thinks  it  not  too  much  to  lay  down,  life  for  its 
chosen  comrade;  a  soul  true  to  its  own  idea  of  honor,  and  burn- 
ing with  an  unquenchable  thirst  for  greatness  and  renown. 

The  imprisoned  lion  in  the  showman's  cage  differs  not  more 
widely  from  the  lord  of  the  desert,  than  the  beggarly  frequenter 
of  frontier  garrisons  and  dramshops  differs  from  the  proud  deni- 
zen of  the  woods.  It  is  in  his  native  wilds  alone  that  the  Indian 
must  be  seen  and  studied.  Thus  to  depict  him  is  the  aim  of  the 
ensuing  History;  and  if,  from  the  shades  of  rock  and  forest, 
the  savage  features  should  look  too  grimly  forth,  it  is  because 
the  clouds  of  a  tempestuous  war  have  cast  upon  the  picture  their 
murky  shadows  .nnd  lurid  fires. 

[From  The  Conspiravy  of  Pontine  and  the  Indian  IVar  after  the  Conquest 
of  Canada,  1851,  chapter  i,  "The  Indian  Character."  The  text  employed,  by 
permission  of  the  publishers,  Little,  Brown,  and  Co.,  is  that  of  the  author's 
revised  edition  of  1870.] 


THE  CAPTURE  OF  QUEBEC 

The  eventful  night  of  the  twelfth  was  clear  and  calm,  with  no 
light  but  that  of  the  stars.  Within  two  hours  before  daybreak, 
thirty  boats,  crowded  with  sixteen  hundred  soldiers,  cast  off  from 
the  vessels,  and  floated  downward,  in  perfect  order,  with  the 
current  of  the  ebb  tide.  To  the  boundless  joy  of  the  army, 
Wolfe's  malady  had  abated,  and  he  was  able  to  command  in  per- 
son. His  ruined  health,  the  gloomy  prospects  of  the  siege,  and 
the  disaster  at  Montmorenci,  had  oppressed  him  with  the  deepes* 
melancholy,  but  never  impaired  for  a  moment  the  promptness  of 
his  decisions,  or  the  impetuous  energy  of  his  action.  He  sat  in 
the  stern  of  one  of  the  boats,  pale  and  weak,  but  borne  up  to  a 
calm  height  of  resolution,  Every  order  had  been  given,  every 
arrangement  made,  and  it  only  remained  to  face  the  issue.  The 
ebbing  tide  sufficed  to  bear  the  boats  along,  and  nothing  broke 
the  silence  of  the  night  but  the  gurgling  of  the  river,  and  the  low 


»i5*^ 


tow  as  it  is 
parting  its 

in  friend- 
life  for  its 
,  and  burn- 
own. 
rs  not  more 

frequenter 
)roud  deni- 

the  Indian 
;  aim  of  the 
and  forest, 

is  because 
licture  their 


-  the  Conquest 
:  employed,  by 
f  the  author's 


ilm,  with  no 
e  daybreak, 
cast  off  from 
er,  with  the 
f  the  army, 
nand  in  per- 
le  siege,  and 
1  the  deepes* 
romptness  of 
He  sat  in 
)orne  up  to  a 
given,  every 
:  issue.     The 
othing  broke 
,  and  the  low 


FRANCIS  PARKMAN 


445 


voice  of  Wolfe,  as  he  repeated  to  the  officers  about  him  the 
stanzas  of  Gray's  Elegy  in  a  Country  Churchyard,  which  had  re- 
cently appeared  and  which  he  had  just  received  from  England. 
Perhaps,  as  he  uttered  those  strangely  appropriate  words,  — 

"The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave," 

the  shadows  of  his  own  approaching  fate  stole  with  mournful 
prophecy  across  his  mind.  "Gentlemen,"  he  said,  as  he  closed 
his  recital,  "  I  would  rather  have  written  those  lines  than  take 
Quebec  to-morrow." 

As  they  approached  the  landing-place  the  boats  edged  closer 
in  towards  the  northern  shore,  and  the  woody  precipices  rose 
high  on  their  left,  like  a  wall  of  undistinguished  blackness. 

"  Qui  Vive  ?  "  shouted  a  French  sentinel,  from  out  the  imper- 
vious gloom. 

"La  France/"  answered  a  captain  of  Eraser's  Highlanders, 
from  the  foremost  boat. 

"A  quel  regiment  f"  demanded  the  soldier. 

"  De  la  Reine!"  promptly  replied  the  Highland  captain,  who 
chanced  to  know  that  the  regiment  so  designated  formed  part  of 
Bougainville's  command.  As  boats  were  frequently  passing  down 
the  river  with  supplies  for  the  garrison,  and  as  a  convoy  from 
Bougainville  was  expected  that  very  night,  the  sentinel  was  de- 
ceived, and  allowed  the  P'ncrlish  to  proceed. 

A  few  moments  after,  they  were  challenged  again,  and  this  time 
they  could  discern  the  soldier  running  close  down  to  the  water's 
edge,  as  if  all  his  suspicions  were  aroused ;  but  the  skilful  replies 
of  the  Highlander  once  more  saved  the  party  from  discovery. 

They  reached  the  landing-place  in  safety,  —  an  indentation  in 
the  shore,  about  a  league  above  the  city,  and  now  bearing  the 
name  of  Wolfe's  Cove.  Here  a  narrow  path  led  up  the  face  of 
the  heights  and  a  French  guard  was  posted  at  the  top  to  defend 
the  pass.  By  the  force  of  the  current,  the  foremost  boats,  in- 
cluding thit  which  carried  Wolfe  himself,  were  borne  a  little 
below  the  spot.  The  general  was  one  of  the  first  on  shore.  He 
looked  upward  at  the  rugged  heights  which  towered  above  him 
in  the  gloom.  "You  can  try  it,"  he  coolly  observed  to  an  officer 
near  him     "but  I  don't  think  you'll  get  up." 


)  ! 


! 


I 


.ittiif^  i*s^aiwaiiS?^^5--.»^.5--  -  i5#»»F-t-: 


=7^-.'ss,W»8a?fc8*r.  i  ^m^roepm^.'!^^'  tt.  jb  jmMiwBBittWtfcwigrtHi*-*^ 


446 


AMERICAX  PROSE 


At  the  point  where  the  Highlanders  landed,  ore  ol  their  cap- 
tains, Donald  Macdonald,  apparently  the  sume  whose  presence  of 
mind  hud  just  saved  the  enterprise  from  ruin,  was  climbing  in 
advance  of  his  men,  wiicn  he  was  challenged  by  a  sentinel.  He 
replied  in  French,  by  declaring  that  he  had  been  sent  to  relieve 
the  guard,  and  ordering  the  soldier  to  withdraw.  Before  the 
latter  was  undeceived,  a  crowd  of  Highlanders  were  close  at 
hand,  while  the  steeps  below  were  thronged  with  eager  ( iimbeis, 
dragging  themselves  up  by  trees,  roots,  and  bushes.  Ihe  guard 
turned  out,  and  made  a  brief  though  brave  resistance.  In  a 
moment,  they  were  cut  to  pieces,  disp-  rsed,  or  made  prisoners; 
while  men  after  men  came  swarming  up  the  height,  am'  quickly 
formed  upon  the  plains  above.  Meanwhile,  the  vessels  had 
dropped  downward  with  the  current,  and  anchored  opposite  the 
landing-place.  The  remaining  troops  were  disembarked,  and, 
with  the  dawn  of  day,  the  whole  were  brought  in  safety  to  the 

shore. 

The  Sim  rose,  and,  from  the  ramparts  of  Quebec,  the  astonished 
people  saw  the  Plains  of  Abraham  glittering  with  arms,  and  the 
dark-red  lines  of  the  English  forming  ii.  array  ot  battle.  Breath- 
less messengers  had  borne  the  evil  tidings  to  Montcalm,  and  far 
and  near  his  wide-extendtd  camp  resounded  with  the  rolling  of 
alarm  drums  and  the  din  of  startled  preparation.  He,  too,  had 
had  his  struggles  and  his  sorrows.  The  civil  power  had  thwarted 
him;  famine,  discontent,  and  disaffection  were  rife  among  his 
soldiers;  and  no  small  portion  of  the  Canadian  militia  had  dis- 
persed from  sheer  starvation.  In  spite  of  all,  he  had  trusted  to 
hold  out  till  the  winter  frosts  should  drive  the  invaders  from 
before  the  town;  when,  on. that  disastrous  morning,  the  news  of 
their  successful  temerity  fell  like  a  cannon  shot  upon  his  ear. 
Still  he  assumed  a  tone  of  confidence.  "They  have  got  to  the 
weak  side  of  us  at  last,"  he  is  reported  to  have  said,  "and  we 
must  crush  them  with  our  numbers."  With  headlong  haste,  his 
troops  were  pouring  over  the  bridge  of  the  St.  Charles,  and  gath- 
ering in  heavy  masses  under  the  western  ramparts  of  the  town. 
Could  numbers  give  assurance  of  success:,  their  triumph  would 
have  been  secure;  for  five  French  battalions  and  the  armed  colo- 
nial peasantry  amounted  in  all  to  more  than  seven  thousand  five 


i -S^^ftftiwon- -; 


FRANCIS  PAh'h'MAN 


447 


their  cap- 
rescnce  of 
imbing  in 
inel.  He 
to  relieve 
Ik  fore  the 
i;  close  at 
•  rlimbeis, 
The  guard 
nee.  In  a 
prisoners; 
id  (luickly 
essels  had 
)posite  the 
rked,  and., 
fety  to  the 

astonished 
IS,  an^l  the 
•.  Breath- 
Im,  and  far 
:  rolling  of 
e,  too,  had 
id  thwarted 
among  his 
a  had  dis- 
1  trusted  to 
aders  from 
the  news  of 
m  his  ear. 
got  to  the 
d,  "  and  we 
y  haste,  his 
),  and  gath- 
t  the  town, 
imph  would 
irmed  colo- 
lousand  five 


hundred  men.  Inill  Jn  siglit  before  them  stretched  the  long,  thin 
lines  of  the  British  forces,  —the  half-wild  Highl.ir.ders,  the  steady 
soldiery  of  England,  and  the  hardy  levies  of  the  piovinces,  — 
less  than  five  thousand  in  number,  but  all  inured  to  battle,  and 
strong  in  tiie  full  assurani:e  of  success.  Yet,  could  the  chiefs  of 
that  gallant  army  have  pierced  the  secrets  of  the  future,  could 
they  have  foreseen  that  the  victory  which  they  bui  iied  to  achieve 
would  have  robbed  England  of  her  proudest  boast,  that  the  con 
quest  of  Canada  would  pave  'he  way  for  the  independence  of 
America,  their  swords  would  have  droppefl  from  their  hands,  and 
the  heroic  fire  have  gone  out  within  their  hearts. 

It  was  nine  o'clock,  and  the  adverse  armies  stood  motionless, 
each  gazing  on  the  other.  The  clouds  hung  low,  and,  at  inter- 
vals, warm  light  showers  descended,  besprinkling  both  alike. 
The  coppice  aiid  cornfields  in  front  of  the  JUitish  troops  were 
filled  with  French  sharpshooters,  who  kept  up  a  distant,  spatter- 
ing fire.  Here  and  there  a  soldier  fell  in  the  ranks,  and  tl.e  gap 
was  filled  in  silence. 

At  a  little  before  ten,  the  British  could  see  that  Montcalm 
was  preparing  to  advance,  and,  in  a  few  moments,  all  his  troops 
appeared  in  rapid  motion.  They  came  on  in  three  divisions, 
shouting  after  the  manner  of  their  nation,  and  firing  heavily  as 
soon  as  they  came  within  range.  In  the  British  ranks,  not  a 
trigger  was  pulled,  not  a  soldier  stirred ;  and  their  ominous  com- 
posure seemed  to  damp  the  spirits  of  the  assailants.  It  was  not 
till  the  French  were  within  forty  yards  that  tiie  fatal  word  was 
given,  and  the  British  muskets  blazed  forth  at  once  in  one  crash- 
ing explosion.  Like  a  ship  at  full  career,  arrested  with  sudden 
ruin  on  a  sunken  rock,  the  ranks  of  Montcalm  staggered,  shivered, 
and  broke  before  that  wasting  storm  of  lead.  Thv.  smoke,  rolling 
along  the  field,  for  a  moment  shut  out  the  view;  but  when  the 
white  wreaths  were  scattered  on  the  wind,  a  wretched  spectacle 
was  disclosed;  men  and  ofificers  tumbled  in  heaps,  battalions  re- 
solved into  a  mob,  order  and  obedience  gone;  and  wiien  the 
British  muskets  were  levelled  tor  a  second  volley,  the  masses  of 
the  militia  were  seen  to  cower  and  shrink  with  uncontrcllable 
panic.  For  a  few  minutes,  the  French  regulars  stood  their 
ground,  returning  a  sharp  and  not  ineffectual  fire.     But  no.v. 


u 


■  rj5i^i^J^^*faitJ*'''i^**fefc=^«g^--^g'*^i'*'^'J*<l^ ^*«fc^i»-j%arf^.*'^Ut  f.v--fSJ<**^is.v«*-*.«i,wfca.i--.- 


t>.iiia4**;.-.  i-iVSJiiir 


V  itMvi^'ilUi^T^-i 


.•sa^4::iiAiei^^^ 


„.Jr 


448 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


W^ 


echoing  cheer  on  cheer,  redoubling  volley  on  volley,  trampling 
the  dying  and  the  dead  and  driving  the  fugitives  in  crowds,  the 
IJritish  troops  advanced  and  swept  the  field  before  them.  The 
ardor  of  the  men  burst  all  restraint.  'I'hey  broke  into  a  run,  and 
with  unsparing  slaughter  chased  the  flying  multitudes  to  the  gates 
of  Quebec.  Foremost  of  all,  the  light-footed  Highlanders  dashed 
along  in  t'lrious  pursuit,  hewing  down  the  Frenchmen  with  their 
broadswords,  and  slaying  many  in  the  very  ditch  of  the  fortifica- 
tions.    Never  was  victory  more  quick  or  more  decisive. 

In  the  short  action  and  pursuit,  the  French  lost  fifteen  hundred 
men,  killed,  wounded,  and  taken.  Of  the  remainder,  some 
escaped  within  the  city,  and  others  fled  across  the  St.  Charles  to 
rejoin  their  comrades  who  had  been  left  to  guard  the  camp.  The 
pursuers  were  recalled  by  sound  of  trumpet;  the  broken  ranks 
were  formed  afresh,  and  the  English  troops  withdrawn  beyond 
reach  of  the  cannon  of  Quebec.  Bougainville,  with  his  corps, 
arrived  from  the  upper  country,  and,  hovering  about  their  rear, 
threatened  an  attack;  but  when  he  saw  what  greeting  was  pre- 
pared for  him,  he  abandoned  his  purpose  and  withdrew.  Towns- 
hend  and  Murray,  the  only  general  officers  who  remained  unhurt, 
passed  to  tiie  head  of  every  regiment  in  turn,  and  thanked  the 
soldiers  for  the  bravery  they  had  shown;  yet  the  triumph  of  the 
victors  was  mingled  with  sadness,  as  the  tidings  went  from  rank 
to  rank  that  Wolfe  had  fallen. 

In  the  heat  of  the  action,  as  he  advanced  at  the  head  of  the 
grenadiers  of  Louisburg,  a  bullet  shattered  his  wrist;  but  he 
wrapped  his  handkerchief  about  the  wound,  and  showed  no  sign 
of  pain.  A  moment  more,  and  a  ball  pierced  his  side.  Still  he 
pressed  forward,  waving  his  sword  and  cheering  his  soldiers  to 
the  attack,  when  a  third  shot  lodged  deep  within  his  breast.  He 
paused,  reeled,  and,  staggering  to  one  side,  fell  to  the  earth. 
Brown,  a  lieutenant  of  the  grenadiers,  Henderson,  a  volunteer, 
an  officer  of  artillery,  and  a  private  soldier,  raised  him  together 
in  their  arms,  and,  bearing  him  to  the  rear,  laid  him  softly  on 
the  grass.  They  asked  if  he  would  have  a  surgeon;  but  he  shook 
his  head,  and  answered  that  all  was  over  with  him.  His  eyes 
closed  with  the  torpor  of  approaching  death,  and  those  around 
sustained  his  fainting  form.     Yet  they  could  not  withhold  their 


}\ 


,  traii'pling 
crowds,  the 
hem.  The 
)  a  run,  and 
to  the  gates 
ders  dashed 
1  with  their 
de  fortifica- 
ve. 

en  hundred 
nder,  some 
:.  Charles  to 
:amp.  The 
oken  ranks 
uvn  beyond 
I  his  corps, 
t  their  rear, 
ng  was  pre- 
w.  Towns- 
ned  unhurt, 
thanked  the 
nnph  of  the 
t  from  rank 

head  of  the 
ist;  but  he 
iwed  no  sign 
le.  Still  he 
IS  soldiers  to 
breast.  He 
D  the  earth, 
a  volunteer, 
aim  together 
lim  softly  on 
3ut  he  shook 
I.  His  eyes 
;hose  around 
ithhold  their 


FNAXCIS  PAKh'MAN 


449 


gaze  from  the  wild  turmoil  before  them,  and  the  charging  ranks 
of  their  companions  rushing  through  fire  and  smoke,  "See  how 
they  run,"  one  of  the  officers  exclaimed,  as  the  French  fled  in 
confusion  before  the  levelled  bayonets.  "  Who  run  ?  "  demanded 
Wolfe,  opening  his  eyes  like  a  man  aroused  from  sleep.  "The 
enemy,  sir,"  was  the  reply;  "they  give  way  everywhere." 
"Then,"  said  the  dying  general,  "tell  Colonel  Burton  to  march 
Webb's  regiment  down  to  Charles  River,  to  cut  off  their  retreat 
from  the  bridge.  Now,  God  be  praised,  I  will  die  in  peace," 
he  muttered;  and,  turning  on  his  side,  he  calmly  breathed  his 

last. 

Almost  at  the  same  moment  fell  his  great  adversary,  Mont- 
calm, as  he  strove,  with  vain  bravery,  to  rally  his  shattered  ranks. 
Struck  down  with  a  mortal  wound,  he  was  placed  upon  a  litter 
and  borne  to  the  General  Hospital  on  the  banks  of  the  St. 
Charles.  The  surgeons  told  him  that  he  could  not  recover.  "  I 
am  glad  of  it,"  was  his  calm  reply.  He  then  asked  how  long  he 
might  survive,  and  was  told  that  he  had  not  many  hours  remain- 
ing. "So  much  the  better,"  he  said;  "  I  am  happy  that  I  shall 
not  live  to  see  the  surrender  of  Quebec."  Officers  from  the  gar- 
rison came  to  his  bedside  to  ask  his  orders  and  instructions.  "  I 
will  give  no  more  orders,"  replied  the  defeated  soldier;  "I  have 
much  business  that  must  be  attended  to,  of  greater  moment  than 
your  ruined  garrison  and  this  wretched  country.  My  time  is 
very  short;  therefore,  pray  leave  me."  The  officers  withdrew, 
and  none  remained  in  the  chamber  but  his  confessor  and  the 
Bishop  of  Quebec.  To  the  last,  he  expressed  his  contempt  for 
his  own  mutinous  and  half-famished  troops,  and  his  admiration 
for  the  disciplined  valor  of  his  opponents.  He  died  before  mid- 
night, and  was  buried  at  his  own  desire  in  a  cavity  of  the  earth 
formed  by  the  bursting  of  a  bombshell. 

The  victorious  army  encamped  before  Quebec,  and  pushed 
their  preparations  for  the  siege  with  zealous  energy;  but  before 
a  single  gun  was  brought  to  bear,  the  white  flag  was  hung  out, 
and  the  garrison  surrendered.  On  the  eighteenth  of  September, 
1759,  the  rock-built  citadel  of  Canada  passed  forever  from  the 
hands  of  its  ancient  masters. 
The  victory  on  the  Plains  of  Abraham  and  the  downfall  of  Que- 


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23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14560 

(716)  872-'.503 


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\'. 


450 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


bee  filled  all  KiiRland  with  pride  and  exidtation.  From  nCith  to 
south,  the  land  blazed  with  illuminations,  and  resounded  with 
the  ringing  of  bells,  the  firing  of  guns,  and  the  shouts  of  the 
multitude.  In  one  village  alone  all  was  dark  and  silent  amid  the 
general  joy;  for  here  dwelt  the  widowed  mother  of  Wolfe.  The 
populace,  with  unwonted  delicacy,  respected  her  lonely  sorrow, 
and  forbore  to  obtrude  the  sound  of  their  rejoicings  upon  her 
grief  for  one  who  had  been  through  life  her  pride  and  solace, 
and  repaid  her  love  with  a  tender  and  constant  devotion. 

[From  Th(  Conspiracy  of  Pontiac  and  the  Indian  War  after  the  Conquest 
of  Canada,  1851,  chapter  4,  "  Collision  of  the  Rival  Colonies."  By  permission 
of  the  publishers.  Little,  Hrown.  and  Co.,  the  text  employed  is  that  of  the 
author's  revised  edition  of  1870.] 


:1:1: 
'1^- 


!   1: 


Hi 


*Ji 


"rom  ncith  to 
ioumled  with 
ibouts  of  the 
lent  amid  the 
Wolfe.  'I'he 
onely  sorrow, 
igs  upon  her 
;  and  solace, 
otion. 

''ter  the  Conquest 

l?y  permission 

(1  is  that  of  the 


APPENDIX 


[Several  remarkable  passages  from  the  older  literature  are  here  included, 
to  indicate  the  temper  and  attitude  of  mind  of  the  colonists.] 

THE   PILGRIMS 

Being  thus  ariued  in  a  good  harbor,  and  brought  safe  to  land, 
they  fell  vpon  their  knees  &  blessed  y'  God  of  heauen,  who  had 
brought  them  ouer  y°  vast,  &  furious  Ocean,  and  deliuered  them 
from  all  y'  periles,  &  miseries  thereof  againe  to  set  their  feete 
on  y'  firme  and  stable  earth,  their  proper  elemente.  And  no 
maruell  if  they  were  thus  loyefull,  seeing  wise  Seneca  was  so 
affected  with  sailing  a  few  miles  on  y"  coast  of  his  owne  Italy;  as 
he  affirmed,  that  he  had  rather  remaine  twentie  years  on  his  way 
by  land,  then  pass  by  sea  to  any  place  in  a  short  time;  so  tedious, 
&  dreadful!  was  y*^  same  vnto  him. 

But  bear  I  cannot  but  stay,  and  make  a  pause,  and  stand  half 
amazed  at  this  poore  peoples  presente  condition;  and  so  I  thinke 
will  the  reader  too,  when  he  well  considers  y"  same.  Iking  thus 
passed  y'  vast  Ocean,  and  a  sea  of  troubles  before  in  their  prep- 
aration (as  may  be  remembered  by  y'  which  wente  before)  they 
had  now  no  freinds  to  wellcome  them,  nor  Inns  to  entertaine,  or 
refresh  their  weatherbeaten  bodys,  no  houses,  or  much  less  townes 
to  repaire  too,  to  seeke  for  succoure;  It  is  recorded  in  scripture 
as  a  mercie  to  y'  apostle  &  his  shipwraked  company,  y'  the  sau- 
age  barbarians  shewed  them  no  smale  kindnes  in  refreshing  them, 
but  these  sauage  barbarians,  when  they  mette  with  them  (as  after 
will  appeare)  were  readier  to  fill  their  sids  full  of  arrows  then 
otherwise.  And  for  y"  season  it  was  winter,  and  they  that  know 
y"  winters  of  y'  cuntiie,  know  them  to  be  sharp  &  violent,  &  sub- 
jecte  to  cruell  &  feirce  stormes,  deangerous  trauili  lo  known 
places,  much  more  to  serch  an  vnknown  coast.     Besids  what 

45» 


n 


icii^*!******-*'''****^^*''*"'*" 


.'«a«J*s»*' 


'.ft 


t;~  i 


^il 


1 
?  in  ' 

4' 


'I 


Ji 


If 


4S2 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


could  they  see,  but  a  hidious  &  desolate  willdernes,  full  of  wild 
beasts,  &  willd  men,  and  what  nuiltituds  ther  might  be  of  them 
they  knew  not;  nether  could  they  (as  it  were)  goe  s\>  to  y"  tope 
of  pisgah,  to  vow  from  this  willdernes,  a  more  goodly  cuntrie  to 
feed  their  hops;  for  which  way  so  euer  they  turnd  their  eys  (saue 
vpward  to  y"  heavens)  they  could  haue  little  solace  or  content,  in 
respecte  of  any  outward  objects,  for  sumti  being  done,  all  things 
stand  vpon  them  with  a  wetherbeaten  face;  an  y'  whole  countrie 
(full  of  woods  &  thickets)  represented  a  wild  &  sauage  heiw;  If 
they  looked  behind  them,  ther  was  y°  mighty  Ocean  which  they 
had  passed,  and  was  now  a  maine  barr,  &  goulfe,  to  seperate  them 
from  all  y'  ciuill  parts  of  y"  world.  If  it  be  said  they  had  a  ship 
to  sucour  them,  it  is  trew;  but  what  heard  they  daly  from  y"  m' 
&  company?  but  y' with  speede  they  should  looke  out  a  place 
(with  their  shallop)  wher  they  would  be,  at  some  near  distance; 
for  y*  season  was  shuch,  as  he  would  not  stirr  from  thence,  till  a 
safe  harbor  was  discouered  by  the*  i,  wher  they  would  be,  and 
he  might  goe  without  danger;  and  that  victells  consumed  apace, 
but '  he  must  &  would  keepe  sufficient  for  them  selues,  &  their 
returne;  yea  it  was  muttered  by  some  that  if  they  gott  not  a 
place  in  time,  they  would  turne  them,  &  their  goods  a  shore,  & 
ieaue  them.  Let  it  be  also  considered  what  weake  hopes  of 
supply,  &  succoure,  they  left  beh'nie  them;  y'  might  bear  vp 
their  minds  in  this  sade  condition,  and  trialls  they  were  vnder; 
and  they  could  not  but  be  uery  smale;  It  is  true  indeed,  y'  affec- 
tions &  !oue  of  their  brethren  at  Leyden  was  cordiall  &  entire 
towards  them,  but  they  had  litle  power  to  help  them,  or  them 
selues;  and  how  y"  case  stoode  betwene  them,  &  y°  marchants,  at 
their  coming  away  hath  allready  been  declared.  What  could 
now  sustaine  them,  but  y"  Spirite  of  God  ^'  his  grace?  May  not, 
&  ought  not  the  children  of  these  fathers  rightly  say,  our  faithers 
were  English  men  ivhich  came  oner  this  great  Ocean,  and  were 
ready  to  perish  in  this  willdernes,  but  they  cried  vnto  y/'  Lord,  and 
he  heard  their  voyce,  and  looked  on  their  aduersitie,  i5^r. 

\YKo\a  History  of  the  Plimoth  Plantation.  Hy  William  Bradfoid.  Written 
from  about  1630  onward.  The  text  is  that  of  the  original  manuscript,  as 
printed  in  Doylf's  facsimile.] 


..,0144*  ■ 


APPENDIX 


4S3 


,  full  of  wild 
it  be  of  them 
vjj  to  y"  tojie 
Uy  cuntrie  to 
leir  eys  (saue 
)r  content,  in 
ne,  all  things 
hole  countrie 
age  heiw;  If 
a  which  they 
eperate  them 
ey  had  a  ship 
ly  from  y"  m' 

out  a  place 
ear  distances 
thence,  till  a 
ould  be,  and 
;umed  apace, 
;lues,  &  their 
y  gott  not  a 
ds  a  shore,  & 
ike  hopes  of 
light  bear  vp 
'  were  vnder; 
leed,  y'  affec- 
liall  &  entire 
hem,  or  them 
marchants,  at 

What  could 
J?  May  not, 
,  our  faithers 
an,  and  were 
f  Lord,  and 

dfoid.     Written 
manuscript,  as 


WAR 

If  you  should  bu*  see  Warre  described  to  you  in  a  Map,  es- 
pecially in  a  Countrey,  well  knowne  to  you,  nay  dearely  beloved 
of  yo;,,  where  you  drew  your  first  breath,  where  onre,  yea  where 
lately  you  dwelt,  where  you  have  received  ten  thousand  mercies, 
and  have  many  a  deare  friend  ?nd  Countrey-man  and  kinsman 
abiding,  how  could  you  but  lament  and  mourne? 

Warre  is  the  conflict  of  enemies  enraged  with  bloody  revenge, 
wheiein   the  parties  opposite  carry  their  lives  in  their  hands, 
every  man  turning  prodigall  of  his  very  heart  blood,  and  willing 
to  be  killed  to  kill.     The  instruments  are  clashing  swords,  rat- 
ling  spearcs,    skul-dividing  Holberds,  murthering  pieces,  and 
thundering  Cannons,  from  whose  mouthes  proceed  the  fire,  and 
smell,  and  smoake,  and  terrour,  death,  as  it  were,  of  the  very 
bottojnlesse  pit.    Wee  wonder  now  and  then  at  the  sudden  death 
of  a  man:  alas,  you  might  there  see  a  thousand  men  not  onely 
healthy,  but  stout  and  strong,  struck  dead  in  the  twinckling  of  an 
eye,  their  breath  exhales  without  so  much  as,  Lorn  have  mercy  up- 
on us.     Death  heweth  its  way  thorow  a  wood  of  men  in  a  minute 
of  time  from  the  mouth  of  a  murderer,  turning  a  forrest  into  a 
Champion  suddenly;  and  when  it  hath  used  these  to  slay  their 
opposites,  they  are  recompenced  with  the  like  death  themselves. 
O  the  shrill  eare-piercing  o'.ings  of  the  Trumpets,  noise  of  Drums, 
the   animating   voyces   of  Horse    Capiaines,   and    Commanders, 
learned  and  learning  to  destroy!     There  is  the  undaunted  Horse 
whose  neck  is  clothed  with  thunder,  and  the  glory  of  whose  nos trills 
is  terrible ;  how  doth  hee  lye  patoing  and prauncing  in  the  valley, 
going  forth  to  meete  the  armed  men  ?  he  mocks  atfeare,  swallowing 
the  ground  with  fiercenesse  and  rage,  and  saying  among  the  trum- 
pets. Ha,  Ha,  hee  smels  the  battell  a  far  off,  the  thunder  of  the 
Captaines  and  the  shouting.     Here  ride  some  dead  men  swagg- 
ing  in  their  deepe  saddles;  there  fall  others  alive  upon  their 
dead  Horses;  death  sends  a  message  to  those  from  the  mouth  of 
the  Muskets,  these  it  talkes  with  face  to  face,  and  stabs  them  in 
the  fift  rib:     In  yonder  file  there  is  a  man  hath  his  arme  struck 
off  from  his  shoulder,  another  by  him  hith  lost  his  leg,  here 


;*i,i;-,'s*'»i»**^'*'' 


»*-/»if^  (**'  ili*-  » 


■h 


X 


f 


454 


AMEK/CAX  PROSE 


stands  a  Soldier  with  liaife  a  face,  there  fights  another  upon  his 
stumi)s,  and  at  once  both  kils  and  is  killed;  not  far  off  lies  a 
company  wallowing  in  their  sweat  aUvl  goare;  such  a  man  whilst 
he  chargeth  his  Musket  is  discharg'd  of  his  life,  and  falls  upon 
his  dead  fellow.  Kvery  battell  of  the  warriour  is  with  confused 
noise  and  garments  rouled  in  blood.  Death  reignes  in  the  field, 
and  is  sure  to  have  the  day  which  side  soever  falls.  In  the 
meanewhile  (O  formidable  !)  the  infernall  fiends  follow  the  Campe 
to  catch  after  the  soiiles  of  rude  nefarous  souldiers  (such  as  are 
commonly  men  of  that  calling)  who  fight  themselves  fearlesly 
into  the  mouth  of  hell  for  reveng?,  a  booty  or  a  little  revenue. 
How  thicke  and  three-fold  doe  they  speed  one  another  to  destruc- 
tion?   A  day  of  battell  is  a  day  of  harvest  for  the  devill. 

[From  AVry  F.iiglauds  Teares,  for  Old  EnglanJs  Feares.  Preached  in  a 
Sermon  on  July  ^j,  r6^o.  hiiiii^  a  day  of  Ptthlike  Humiliation,  appointed  by 
the  Churches  in  hehalfe  of  our  native  Countrey  in  time  of  feared  dangers.  By 
William  Uooke,  1641.] 


\  ! 


ENGLAND   AND   AMERICA 

And  therefore  I  cannot  but  admire,  and  indeed  much  pitty  the 
dull  stupidity  of  people  necessitated  in  England,  who  rather  then 
they  will  remove  themselves,  live  here  a  base,  slavish,  penurious 
life;  as  if  there  were  a  necessity  to  live  and  to  live  so,  choosing 
rather  then  they  will  forsake  England  to  stuff  New-gate,  Bride- 
well, and  other  Jayles  with  their  carkessies,  nay  cleave  to  tyburne 
it  selfe ;  and  so  bring  confusion  to  their  souls  horror  and  infamine 
to  their  kindred  or  posteritie,  others  itch  out  their  wearisome 
lives  in  reliance  of  other  mens  charities,  an  uncertaine  and  un- 
manly expectation;  some  more  abhorring  such  courses  betake 
them  selves  to  almost  perpetuall  and  restlesse  toyle  and  drug- 
geries  out  of  which  (whilst  their  strength  lasteth)  they  (observing 
hard  diets,  earlie  and  late  houres)  make  hard  shift  to  subsist  from 
hand  to  mouth,  untill  age  or  sicknesse  takes  them  off  from  labour 
and  directs  them  the  way  to  beggerie,  and  such  indeed  are  to  be 
pittied,  relieved  and  provided  for. 

I  have  seriously  considered  when  I  have  (passing  the  streets) 


ther  upon  his 
:  far  off  lies  a 
»  a  man  whilst 
ind  falls  upon 
with  confused 
2s  in  the  field, 
falls.  In  the 
low  the  Campe 
rs  (such  as  are 
elves  fearlesly 
little  revenue, 
her  to  destruc- 
devill. 

Preached  in  a 

ion,  appointed  by 
red  dangers.     By 


much  pitty  the 
ho  rather  then 
■ish,  penurious 
e  so,  choosing 
w-gate,  Bride- 
ave  to  tyburne 
r  and  infamine 
leir  wearisome 
rtaine  and  un- 
courses  betake 
)yle  and  drng- 
hey  (observing 
to  subsist  from 
3ff  from  labour 
ideed  are  to  be 

ing  the  streets) 


^'MMMWMMVMVWWIWWr' 


I  mi .      mill  III     u  niniii-yiiwiiimin  ,_ 


APPENDIX 


455 


heard  the  several  Cryes,  and  noting  the  commodities,  and  the 
worth  of  them  they  have  carried  and  cryed  up  and  down;  how 
possibly  a  livelihood  could  be  exacted  out  of  them,  as  to  cry 
Matches.  SmiU-Coal,  Blacking,  Pen  and  Ink,  Thred-laces,  and  a 
hundred  more  such  kinde  of  trilling  merchandizes;  then  looking 
on  the  nastinesse  of  their  linnen  habits  and  bodies:  I  conclude 
if  gain  sutlkient  could  be  raised  out  of  them  for  subsistance;  yet 
their  manner  of  living  was  degenerate  and  base;  and  their  con- 
dition to  be  far  below  the  meanest  servant  in  Virginia. 

[From  Leah  and  Rachel,  or,  the    Two   Fruitfull  Sisters    Virginia  and 
Maryland.    By  John  Hammond,  1656.] 


NEW   ENGLAND 

New  England  is  said  to  begin  at  40  and  to  end  at  46  of 
Northerly  Latitude,  that  is  from  de  la  Ware  Bay  to  New-found- 
Land. 

The  Sea  Coasts  are  accounted  wholsomest,  the  East  and  South 
Winds  coming  from  Sea  produceth  warm  weather,  the  Northwest 
coming  over  land  causeth  extremity  of  (Jold,  and  many  times 
strikes  the  Inhabitants  both  English  and  Indian  with  that  sad 
Disease  called  there  the  Plague  of  the  back,  but  with  us  Empiema. 

The  Country  generally  is  Rocky  and  Mountanous,  and  ex- 
tremely overgrown  with  wood,  yet  here  and  there  beautified  with 
large  rich  Valleys,  wherein  are  Lakes  ten,  twenty,  yea  sixty  miles 
in  compass,  out  of  which  our  great  Rivers  have  their  Begin- 
nings. 

Fourscore  miles  (upon  a  direct  line)  to  the  Northwest  of  Scar- 
borow,  a  Ridge  of  Mountains  run  Northwest  and  Northeast  an 
hundred  Leagues,  known  by  the  name  of  the  White  Mountains, 
upon  which  lieth  Snow  all  the  year,  and  is  a  Land-mark  twenty 
miles  off  at  Sea.  It  is  rising  ground  from  the  Sea  shore  to  these 
Hills,  and  they  are  inaccessible  but  by  the  Gullies  which  the  dis- 
solved Snow  hath  made;  in  these  Gullies  ^ovi  Saven  Bushes, 
which  being  taken  hold  of  are  a  good  help  to  the  climbing  Dis- 
coverer; upon  the  top  of  the  highest  of  these  Mountains  is  a  large 


~i%;_^ffJt:AA■^i■»^^• 


-  s?^i*^s!t^.r»^-" 


if 


41    '< 

:  1 


if: 


I 


1^ 


1^ 


i 


456 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


Level  or  Plain  of  a  clays  journey  over,  whereon  nothing  grows  but 
Moss;  at  the  farther  end  of  this  I'lain  is  another  Hill  called  the 
Sttf[ar-Loa/,  to  outward  appearance  a  rude  heap  of  niassic  stones 
piled  one  upon  another,  and  you  may  a.,  you  ascend  step  fropi 
one  stone  to  another,  as  if  you  wore  going  up  a  pair  of  stairs,  but 
winding  still  ahuut  the  Hill  till  you  come  to  the  top,  which  will 
reipiire  half  a  days  time,  and  yet  it  is  not  above  a  Mile,  where 
there  is  also  a  Level  of  about  an  Acre  of  ground,  with  a  pond  of 
Clearwater  in  the  midst  of  it;  which  you  may  hear  run  tlown,  but 
how  it  ascends  is  a  mystery.  From  this  rocky  Hill  you  may  see 
the  whole  Country  round  about;  it  is  far  above  the  lower  Clouds, 
and  from  hence  we  beheld  a  Vapour  (like  a  great  Pillar)  drawn 
up  by  the  Sun  beams  out  of  a  great  Lake  or  Pond  into  the  Air, 
where  it  was  formed  into  a  Cloud.  The  Country  beyond  these 
Hills  Northward  is  daunting  terrible,  being  full  of  rocky  Hills, 
as  thick  as  Mole-Hills  in  a  meadow,  and  clothed  with  infinite 
thick  Woods. 

[From  Ne-M  England's  Rarities  discovered  in  Birds,  Beasls,  Fishes,  Ser- 
pents, and  Plants  of  that  Cmnt.-y.    John  Josselyn,  Gent.,  1672.] 


THE   PILHANNAW 

The  Pilhannmv  or  Mechqiian,  much  like  the  description  of 
the  Indian  Ruck,  a  monstrous  great  Bird,  a  kind  of  Hawk,  some 
say  an  Ivigle,  four  times  as  big  as  a  Goshawk,  white  Mail'd, 
having  two  or  three  puiple  Feathers  in  her  head  as  long  as  Geeses 
Feathers  they  make  Pens  of,  the  Quills-  of  these  Feathers  are 
purple,  as  big  as  Swans  Quills  and  transparent;  her  Head  is  as 
big  as  a  Childs  of  a  year  old,  a  very  Princely  Bird;  when  she 
soars  abroad,  all  sort  of  feathered  Creatures  hide  themselves,  yet 
she  never  preys  upon  any  of  them,  but  upon  Fmvns  and  Jaccah: 
She  Ayries  in  the  Woods  upon  the  High  Hills  of  Ossapy,  and  is 
■3ry  rarely  or  seldom  seen. 
[From  the  same.] 


t   i 


^,.>i;i„4«MI«*«w».Bf 


iig  grows  but 
11  called  the 
iiassic  stones 
d  step  from 
of  stairs,  but 
),  which  will 
Mile,  where 
th  a  pond  of 
iin  tlown,  but 
you  may  see 
ower  Clouds, 
Pillar)  drawn 
into  the  Air, 
ueyond  these 
rocky  Hills, 
with  infinite 


is/s,  fishes,  Ser- 
2-] 


lescription  of 
Hawk,  some 
vhite  Mail'd, 
long  as  Geeses 
Feathers  are 
er  Head  is  as 
rd;  when  she 
lemselves,  yet 
,f  and  Jaccah: 
Ossapy,  and  is 


APPENDIX 


NATURE   AND    CHRISTIANITY 


457 


As  long  as  Plum  Island  shall  faithfully  keep  the  commanded 
Post;  Notwithstanding  all  the  hectoring  Words,  and  h^rd  Illows 
of  the  pioud  and  boisterous  Ocean;  As  long  as  any  Salmon,  or 
Sturgeon  shall  swim  in  the  streams  of  Mcnimaik ;  or  any  I'erch, 
or  Pickeril,  in  Crane  Pond ;  As  long  as  the  Sea-Fowl  shall  know 
the  Time  of  their  coming,  and  not  neglect  seasonably  to  visit  the 
Places  of  their  Accpiainlance  ;  As  long  as  any  Cattel  shall  be  fed 
with  the  Grass  growing  in  the  Medows,  which  do  humbly  bow 
down  themselves  before  'rinkic-llill ;  As  long  as  auy  Sheep  shall 
walk  upon  Old-Tojon  Jlills,  and  shall  from  thence  ])leasantly  look 
down  upon  the  River  Parker,  the  fruitful  Marishes  lying  beneath; 
As  long  as  any  free  &  harmless  Doves  shall  find  a  White  Oak, 
or  other  Tree  within  the  Township,  to  perch,  or  feed,  or  build  a 
careless  Nest  upon;  and  shall  voluntarily  present  themselves  to 
perform  the  office  of  Gleaners  after  Barley-Harvest ;  As  long  as 
Nature  shall  not  grow  Old  and  dote;  but  shall  constantly  re- 
member to  give  the  rows  of  Indian  Corn  their  education  by  Pairs: 
So  long  shall  Christians  be  born  there;  and  being  first  made  meet 
shall  from  thence  be  translated,  to  be  made  partakers  of  the  In- 
heritance of  the  Saints  in  Light. 

[From  Phitnomeiia  qiMiiam  apocalyptica  ad  aspectum  novi  orbis  conjigu- 
rata.  Or,  some  few  Lines  toward  a  description  of  A^ew  Heaven  As  It  makes 
to  those  who  stand  upon  the  Ne7v  Earth.  By  Samuel  Sewall,  1 697.  The 
text  is  that  of  the  second  edition,  1727.] 


CAPTIVITY 

After  this,  we  went  up  the  mountain,  and  saw  the  smoke  of 
the  fires  in  the  town,  and  beheld  the  awful  deiolations  of  Deer- 
field  :  And  before  we  marched  any  farther,  they  killed  a  sucking 
child  of  the  English.  There  were  slain  by  the  enemy  of  the 
inhabitants  of  Deerfield,  to  the  number  of  thirty-eight,  besides 
nine  of  the  neighboring  towns.  We  travelled  not  far  the  first 
day;  God  made  the  heathen  so  to  pity  our  children,  that  though 


^ 


Ifeiwf^St*''^**'*"'' 


f^r 


458  ^.IfE/HCAy  PA'OSE 

they  hnd  several  wounded  persons  of  their  own  to  carry  upon 
their  shoulders,  for  /////A  mi/cx,  before  they  came  to  the  river,  yet 
they  carried  our  children,  incapable  of  travelling,  in  iheir  arms, 
and  upon  their  shoulders.  When  we  came  to  our  lodging  place, 
the>M7  iii.i;/i/,  tiiey  dug  away  the  snow,  and  made  some  wigwams, 
cut  down  some  small  branches  of  the  s/>nne  tree  to  lie  down  on, 
and  gave  the  prisoners  somewhat  to  eat;  but  we  had  but  little 
appetite.  I  was  pinionetl,  and  bound  down  that  night,  and  so  I 
was  every  nigiit  wliilsl  I  was  with  the  army.  Some  of  the  enemy 
who  brought  drink  with  them  from  the  town,  fell  to  drinking, 
and  in  their  drunken  fit,  they  killed  my  negro  man,  the  only  dead 
person  1  either  saw  at  the  town,  or  in  the  way. 

In  the  night  an  Eiii^lishiiuxn  made  his  escape;  in  the  morn-ng 
{^Manh  i.J  1  was  called  fo' ,  and  ovdered  by  the  genera!  'o  cU 
the  Eiii^lish,  that  if  any  more  made  tlieir  escape,  they  would  barn 
the  rest  of  the  prisoners.  He  that  took  me,  was  unwilling  to 
let  me  speak  with  any  of  the  prisoners,  as  we  marched;  but  on 
the  moniini^ai  the  seeoti/  day,  he  being  ajipointed  to  guard  the 
rear,  I  was  jMit  into  the  hands  of  my  other  master,  who  permitted 
me  to  speak  to  my  wife,  when  I  overtook  her,  and  to  walk  with 
her  to  hclj)  her  in  her  journey.  On  the  way,  we  discoursed  of 
the  happiness  of  those  who  had  a  right  to  an  house  not  made 
with  hands,  eternal  in  the  heavens;  and  God  for  a  father,  and 
friend;  as  also,  that  it  was  our  reasonable  duty,  quietly  to  submit 
to  the  will  of  (;<)i),  and  to  say,  the  will  if  the  Lord  he  done.  My 
wife  told  me  her  strength  of  body  began  to  fail,  and  that  I  must 
expect  to  part  with  her;  saying,  she  hoped  God  would  preserve 
my  life,  and  the  life  of  some,  if  not  all  of  our  children,  with  us; 
and  commended  to  me,  under  God,  the  care  of  them.  She  never 
spake  any  discontented  word  as  to  what  had  befallen  us,  but  with 
suitable  expressions  justified  God  in  what  had  happened.  We 
soon  made  a  halt,  in  which  time  my  chief  surviving  master  came 
up,  upon  which  I  was  put  upon  marching  with  the  foremost,  and 
so  made  to  take  my  last  farewell  of  my  dear  wife,  the  desire  of 
my  eyes,  and  companion  in  many  mercies  and  afflictions.  Upon 
our  separation  from  each  other,  we  asked  for  each  other,  grace 
sufficient,  for  what  God  should  call  us  to:  After  our  being 
parted  from  one  another,  she  spent  the  few  remaining  minutes 


^■^«mt-' 


■  t    Ufl  ^H|»^l<—— l|>'»«i~ 


APPENDIX 


459 


>  carry  '.ipf)n 
;l\e  river,  yet 
1  iheir  arms, 
(Iging  place, 
ne  wigwiiins, 
lie  clown  on, 
lad  but  little 
^ht,  and  so  I 
)(  the  enemy 
to  drinking, 
:he  only  dead 

the  morn'iig 
enerr.l  to  ell 
y  would  barn 
unwilling  to 
ched ;  but  on 

to  guard  the 
ho  permitted 

to  walk  with 
discoursed  of 
Hse  not  made 
I  father,  and 
;tly  to  submit 
he  done.  My 
\  that  I  must 
juld  preserve 
Iren,  with  us; 
I.  She  never 
n  us,  but  with 
ppened.  We 
[  master  came 
ioremost,  and 

the  desire  of 
tions.  Upon 
I  other,  grace 
er  our  being 
ning  minutes 


of  her  slay,  in  reading  the  holy  scriptures;  which  she  was  wont 
personally  every  day  to  delight  her  soul  in  reading,  i)raying, 
meditating  on,  and  over,  by  herself,  in  her  closet,  over  and 
above  what  she  heard  out  of  them  in  our  family  worship.  1  was 
made  to  wade  over  a  small  river,  and  so  were  all  the  lin^lish,  the 
water  above  knee  deep,  the  stream  very  swift;  and  after  that  to 
travel  up  a  small  mountain;  my  strength  was  almost  spent,  before 
1  came  to  the  top  of  it:  No  sooner  had  I  overcome  the  diffi- 
culty of  that  ascent,  but  I  was  permitted  to  sit  down,  and  be  un- 
burthened  of  my  pack;  I  sat  pitying  those  who  were  behind,  and 
intreated  my  master  to  let  me  go  down  and  helj)  my  wife;  but  he 
refused  and  would  nor  let  me  stir  from  him.  1  asked  each  of 
the  prisoners  (as  they  passed  by  me)  after  her,  and  heard  that 
jjassing  through  the  above  saiil  river,  she  fell  down,  and  was 
plunged  over  head  and  ears  in  the  water;  after  which  she  travelled 
not  far,  for  at  the  foot  of  that  mountain,  the  cruel  and  blood- 
thirsty savage  wlio  took  her,  slew  her  with  his  hatchet  at  one 
stroke,  the  tidings  of  which  were  very  awful :  And  yet  such  was 
the  hard-heartedness  of  the  adversary,  that  my  tears  were  reck- 
oned to  me  as  a  reproach.  My  loss,  and  the  loss  of  my  children 
was  great,  our  hearts  were  so  fdled  with  sorrow,  that  nothing  but 
the  comfortable  hopes  of  her  being  taken  away  in  mercy,  to  her- 
self, from  the  evils  we  were  to  see,  feel,  and  suffer  under,  (and 
joined  to  the  assembly  of  the  spirits  of  just  men  made  perfect,  to 
rest  in  peace,  VinAjoy  unspeakable  and  full  of  glory ;  and  the  good 
pleasure  of  God  thus  to  exercise  us)  could  have  kept  us  from 
sinking  under,  at  that  time.  .   .   . 

We  were  again  called  upon  to  march,  with  a  far  heavier  burden 
on  my  spirits,  than  on  my  back.  I  begged  of  God  to  overrule  in 
his  providence,  that  the  corpse  of  one  so  dear  to  me,  and  of  one 
whose  spirit  he  had  taken  to  dwell  with  him  in  glory,  might  meet 
with  a  christian  burial,  and  not  be  left  for  meat  to  the  fowls  of 
the  air,  and  beasts  of  the  earth :  A  mercy  that  God  graciously 
vouchsafed  to  grant.  For  God  put  it  into  the  liearts  of  my 
neighbors,  to  come  out  as  far  as  she  lay,  to  take  up  her  corpse, 
c^rry  it  to  the  town,  and  decently  to  bury  it  soon  after.  In  our 
march  they  killed  a  sucking  infant  of  one  of  my  neighbors;  and 
before  night  a  girl  of  about  eleven  years  of  age.     I  was  made  to 


=ii-'---"'9.'*^^  :-^iUaii!<M-. 


-    ; 


in 

ill  >■ 

1  Kl 

1 ,'  s  t 


..  .I 


460 


AM  HA' I  CAN  PKOSE 


mourn,  at  the  consideration  of  my  Hock's  being  so  far  a  flock  o 
slaugiUer,  many  being  slain  in  tlic  town,  and  so  many  murdered 
in  so  few  miles  from  the  town;  and  from  fears  what  we  must  yet 
expect,  from  such  who  delightfully  imbrued  their  hands  in  the 
blood  of  so  many  of  his  people.  When  we  came  to  our  lodging 
place  an  Indian  captain  from  the  easfwar,/,  spake  to  my  master 
about  killing  me,  and  taking  off  my  scalp.  I  lifted  u).  my  heart 
to  God,  to  implore  his  grace  and  mercy  in  such  a  time  of  need; 
and  afterwards  I  told  my  master,  if  he  int.-nded  to  kill  me,  I  de- 
sired he  would  let  me  know  of  it;  assuring  him  that  my  death, 
after  a  promise  of  quarter,  would  bring  the  guilt  of  blood  upon 
him.  He  told  me  he  would  not  kill  me:  We  laid  down  and 
slept,  for  (lod  sustained  and  kept  us. 

FFroin  Tht  Kedtantd  Captive  reluruin^to  Zion,  or  a  Fnithful  'f'fyjf 
Krm.utM-  (>uwr,>,,fs  in  Ou  CpiMty  ami  nelivnamc  of  Mr.  John  W,l- 
Itams,  M.nistcrofl/u'  C.o^t^l  at  Pe.rpU,  who.  in  the  Pnolat.on  Ml  befell 
that  ria.  ition,  by  an  Incuruon  of  the  I'ven.h  ami  Indiam,  was  by  hen,  car- 
ried away,  with  his  family  and  hh  Xei.'hbourhood,  into  <">"""■  ^'7"  ''^ 
himself  1707.    The  text  U  that  of  the  nixth  edition,  Greenfield,  Mass.,  iSoo.J 


THE   FUTURE   STATE  OF   NORTH    AMERICA 

Thirdiy  of  the  Future  State  of  North  America,  —  Here  we 
find  a  vast  Stock  of  proper  Materials  for  the  Art  and  Ingenuity 
of  Man  to  work  upon: -Treasures  of  immense  Worth,  conceal  d 
from  the  poor  ignorant  aboriginal  Natives!  The  Curious  have 
observ'd,  that  the  Progress  of  Humane  Literature  (like  the  bun) 
is  from  the  Ivast  to  the  W^est;  thus  has  it  travelled  thro'  Asia  and 
Ettn'fr,  and  now  is  arrived  at  the  Eastern  Shore  of  Amcnca. 
As  the  Celestial  Light  of  the  Gospel  was  directed  here  by  the 
Finger  of  (]oi>,  it  will  doubtless,  finally  drive  the  long!  long! 
Night  of  Heathenish  Darkness  from  Atnerica:  — So  Arts  and 
Sciences  will  change  the  Face  of  Nature  in  their  Tour  from 
Hence  over  the  Appalachian  Mountains  to  the  Western  Ocean; 
and  as  they  march  thro'  the  vast  Desert,  the  Residence  of  wild 
Beasts  will  be  broken  up,  and  their  obscene  Howl  cease  for  ever; 
_  Instead  of  which,  the  Stones  and  Trees  will  dance  together  at 


Arri-:xn/x 


461 


ir  a  flot  k  of 
y  nmnlcred 
ivc  imist  yi't 
mils  in  the 
:Mir  lodging 
)  my  masltT 
lip  my  ht'art 
lie  of  need ; 
11  me,  I  de- 
it  my  death, 
blood  upon 
1  down  and 


/«/  History  of 
Mr.  John  Wil- 
III  which  he/ell 
IS  hy  Ihem  car- 
fa.  Drawn  by 
,  Mass.,  1800.] 


RICA 

,  — Here  we 

id  Ingenuity 
th,  conceal'd 
Jurious  have 
like  the  Sun) 
uro'  Asia  and 

of  America. 
1  here  by  the 

long!  long! 
So  Arts  and 
r  Tour  from 
stern  Ocean; 
,cnce  of  wild 
ease  for  ever ; 
ce  together  at 


the  Music  of  <9///;c«v,  —  the  Rot  ks  will  disclose  thoir  hidden 
Clems, — and  the  inestimable  treasures  of  (lold  iV  Silver  will  be 
broken  up.  Huge  Mountains  of  Iron  Ore  are  already  discovered ; 
and  vast  Stores  arc  reserved  for  future  dcnerations;  this  Metal 
more  useftd  than  (iold  or  Silver,  will  emjjloy  Millions  of  Hands, 
not  only  to  form  the  martial  Sword,  and  j)eaceful  Share,  alter- 
nately; but  an  iMfinity  of  I'ttusils  improved  in  the  I'lxercise  of 
Art,  and  Handicraft  amongst  .Men.  Nature  thro'  all  her  Works 
has  stami)'d  .Authority  on  this  Law,  namely,  "that  all  fit  Matter 
shall  be  improved  to  its  best  Purposes."  —  Shall  not  then  those 
vast  Quarries  that  teem  with  mechanic  Stone,  —  tiiose  for  Structure 
be  piled  into  great  t!ities,  — and  those  for  Sculpture  into  Statues, 
to  |)erpetuatc  the  Honor  of  renowned  Heroes;  —  even  those  who 
shall  NOW  save  their  country.  O!  I'c  tiii/ioni  /nhahidiits  of 
America!  slioiilJ  this  Pat^e  escape  its  ih'slin' ii  ConJUv^ration  at  the 

Year's  Eiui,  and  these  Alphabetical  Letters  remain  le^^ihle,  —  when 
your  Eyes  behold  the  Sun  after  he  has  rolled  the  Seasons  round  for 
two  or  three  Centuries  more,  you  will  knoiv  that  in  Anno  Domini 

1758,  we  dream'  d  of  your  Times. 

[From  An  Astronomical  Diary:  or,  an  Almanack  For  the  Year  0/ our 
Lord  Christ,  /yjS.     lly  Nathaniel  Anics.J 


AN   AMERICAN   FARMER 

As  you  are  the  first  enlightened  European  I  have  ever  had  the 
pleasure  of  being  accpiainted  with,  you  will  not  be  surprised  that 
1  should,  according  to  your  earnest  desire  and  my  promise,  ap- 
pear anxious  of  preserving  your  friendship  and  correspondence. 
Hy  your  accounts,  I  observe  a  material  difference  subsists  between 
your  husbandry,  modes,  and  customs,  and  ours;  everything  is 
local;  could  we  enjoy  the  advantages  of  the  ICnglish  farmer,  w 
should  be  much  happier,  indeed;  but  this  wish,  like  many  others, 
implies  a  contradiction;  and  could  the  English  farmers  have  some 
of  those  privileges  we  possess,  they  would  be  the  first  of  their 
class  in  the  world,  (lood  and  evil,  I  see,  are  to  be  found  in  all 
.societies,  and  it  is  in  vain  to  seek  for  any  spot  where  those  in- 
gredients are  not  mixed.     I  therefore  rest  satisfied,  and  thank 


J. 


i»;^',4H'-<*»* 


w^ 


462 


AMERICAN  PROSE 


■Ul: 


;  \ 


m 


God  tliat  my  lot  is  to  be  an  American  farmer,  instead  of  an  Rus- 
sian boor,  or  an  Hungarip.ii  peasant.  I  thanii  you  kindlj  for  the 
idea  however  dreadful,  which  you  have  given  me  of  tlieir  lot  and 
condition;  your  observations  have  confirmed  me  in  the  justness 
of  my  ideas,  and  I  am  happier  now  than  I  thought  myjclf  before. 
It  is  strange  that  misery,  when  viewed  in  others,  should  become 
to  us  a  sort  of  real  good,  though  I  am  far  from  rejoicing  to  hear 
that  there  are  in  the  world,  men  so  thoroughly  wretched ;  they 
are  no  doubt  as  harmless,  industrious,  and  willing  to  work  as  we 
are.  Hard  is  their  fate,  to  be  thus  condemned  to  a  slavery  worse 
than  that  ol  our  negroes.  Yet  when  young,  I  entertained  some 
thoughts  of  selling  mv  farm.  I  thought  it  afforded  but  a  dull  rep- 
etition of  the  same  labours  .:nd  pleasures.  I  thought  the  former 
tedious  and  hea\y,  the  latter  few  and  insipid;  but  when  I  came 
to  consider  myself  as  divested  of  my  farm,  I  then  found  the  world 
so  wide,  and  every  place  so  full,  that  I  began  to  fear  lest  there 
should  be  no  room  for  me.  My  farm,  my  house,  my  barn,  pre- 
sented to  my  imagination,  objects  from  which  I  adduced  quite 
new  ideas;  they  were  more  forcil'e  dian  before.  Why  should  I 
not  finti  myself  happy,  said  I,  where  my  father  was  before?  He 
left  me  no  good  books,  it  is  true;  he  gave  me  no  other  education 
than  the  art  of  reading  and  writing;  but  he  left  me  a  good  farm, 
and  his  experience;  he  left  me  free  from  debts,  and  no  kind  of 
difficulties  to  struggle  with.  I  married,  and  this  perfectly  recon- 
cileil  me  to  my  situation;  my  wife  rendered  my  house  all  at  once 
chearful  and  pleasing:  it  no  longer  appeared  gloomy  and  solitary 
as  before;  when  I  went  to  work  in  my  fields,  I  worked  with  more 
alacrity  and  sprightliness;  I  felt  that  I  did  not  work  for  myself 
alone,  and  this  encouraged  me  much.  My  wife  would  often  come 
wiiii  her  knitting  in  her  hand,  and  sit  under  the  shady  trees, 
praising  the  straightness  of  my  furrows,  and  the  docility  of  ir.y 
horses;  this  swelled  my  heart  and  made  every  thing  light  ana 
pleasant,  and  I  regretted  that  I  had  not  married  before.  I  felt 
myself  happy  in  my  new  situation;  and  whcie  is  that  situation 
which  can  confer  a  more  substantial  system  of  felicity,  than  that 
of  an  American  farmer,  possessing  freedom  of  action,  freedom  of 
thoughts,  ruled  by  a  mode  of  go\ernment  which  requires  but  little 
from  us?     I  owe  nothing,  but  a  pepper  corn  to  my  country,  a 


: ,  .A-.s  f  i^i0^Jil^.'^}^&m 


.ifA'^ii 


■.a^.f«k-iti»»aM(i8S8>)itw»w-->--- 


APPENDIX 


463 


ead  of  an  Rus- 
kindl)  for  the 
)f  tlieir  lot  and 
in  the  justness 
myself  before, 
should  become 
joicing  to  hear 
ivretched;  they 
to  work  as  we 
a  slavery  worse 
tertained  some 
but  a  dull  rep- 
ght  the  former 
It  when  I  came 
ound  the  world 
fear  lest  there 
,  my  barn,  pre- 
adduced  quite 
\Vhy  should  I 
IS  before?     He 
other  education 
le  a  good  farm, 
and  no  kind  of 
perfectly  recon- 
ouse  all  at  once 
imy  and  solitary 
)rked  with  more 
vork  for  myself 
ould  often  come 
:he  shady  trees, 
docility  of  m.y 
thing  light  and 
1  before.     I  felt 
is  that  situation 
:licity,  than  that 
tion,  freedom  of 
squires  but  little 
o  my  country,  a 


small  tribute  to  government,  with   loyalty  and  due  respect;    I 
know  no  other  landlord,  than  the  Lord  of  all  land,  to  whom  I  owe 
the  most  sincere  gratitude.     My  father  left  me  three  hundred 
and  seventy-one  acres  of  land,  forty-seven  of  which  are  good 
timothy  meadow,  an  excellent  orchard,  a  good  house,  and  a  sub- 
stantial barn.     It  is  my  duty  to  think  how  happy  I  am,  that  he 
lived  to  build  and  to  pay  for  all  these  improvements;  what  are  the 
labours  which  I  have  to  undergo,  what  are  my  fatigues  when 
compared  to  his,  who  had  every  thing  to  do,  from  the  first  tree 
he  felled,  to  the  finishing  of  his  house?     Every  year  I  kill  from 
1500  to  2000  weight  of  pork,  1200  of  beef,  half  a  dozei.  of  good 
wethers  in  harvest:  of  fowls  my  wife  has  always  a  great  flock: 
what  can  I  with  more?     My  negroes  are  tolerably  faithful  and 
healthy;  by  a  long  series  of  industry  and  honest  dealings,  my 
father  left  behind  him  the  name  of  a  good  man;  I  have  but  to 
tread  his  paths  to  be  happy  and  a  good  man  like  him.     I  know 
enough  of  the  law  to  regulate  my  little  concerns  with  propriety, 
nor  do  I  dread  its  power;  these  are  the  grand  outlines  of  my 
situation,  but  as  I  can  feel  much  more  than  I  am  able  to  express, 
I  hardly  know  how  to  proceed.     When  my  first  son  was  born,  the 
whole  train  of  my  ideas  was  altered;  never  was  there  a  charm 
that  acted  so  quickly  and  so  powerfully;  I  ceased  to  ramble  in 
imagination  through  the  wide  world:  my  excursions  since  have 
not  exceeded  the  bounds  of   my  farm,   and  all   my  principal 
pleasures  are  now  centred  within  its  scanty  limits:  but,  at  the 
same  time,  there  is  not  an  operation  belonging  to  it,  in  which  I 
do  not  find  some  food  for  useful  reflexions.     This  is  the  reason 
I  suppose,  that  when  you  was  here,  you  used,  in  your  refined 
stile,  to  denominate  me  the  farmer  of  feelings;  how  rude  must 
those  feelings  be  in  him  who  daily  holds  the  axe  or  the  plough! 
how  much  more  refined  on  the  contrary  those  of  the  European, 
whose  mind  is  improved  by  education,  example,  .^ooks,  and  by 
every  acquired  advantage !     Those  feelings,  however,  I  will  de- 
lineate as  well  as  I  can,  agreeably  to  your  earnest  request.     When 
I  contemplate  my  wife,  by  my  fireside,  while  she  either  spins, 
knits,  darns,  or  su"kles  our  child,  I  carmot  describe  the  various 
emotions  of  love,  of  gratitude,  of  conscious  pride,  which  thrill 
in  my  heart,  and  often  overflow  in  involuntary  tears.     I  feel  the 


u 


;=-7-'^.^;j-,-iiRi?.^;Ei(fe».-»SiW*^  '^ 


464 


AMERICAN  PROSl. 


\M 


necessity,  the  sweet  pleasure  of  acting  mj  part,  the  part  of  an 
husband  and  faiher,  with  an  attention  and  propriety  which  may 
entitle  me  to  my  good  fortune.  It  is  true  th-  ^e  pleasing  images 
vanish  with  the  smoke  of  my  pipe;  but  though  they  disappear 
from  my  mind,  the  impression  they  have  made  on  my  heart  '3 
indellible.  When  I  play  ^vith  the  infant,  my  warm  imagination 
runs  forward,  and  eagerly  anticipates  his  future  temper  and  con- 
stitution. 1  would  willingly  open  ihe  book  of  fate,  and  know  in 
which  pige  his  destiny  is  delineated;  alas!  where  is  the  father 
who  in  those  moments  of  paternal  extacy,  can  delineate  one  half 
the  thoughts  which  dilate  his  heart?  I  am  sure  I  cannot;  then 
again  I  fear  for  the  health  of  those  who  are  become  so  dear  to 
mo  and  in  their  sicknesses  1  severely  pay  for  the  joys  I  experi- 
enced while  they  were  well.  Whenever  I  go  abroad,  it  is  always 
involuntarily.  I  never  return  home  without  feeling  some  pleas- 
ing emotion,  which  1  often  suppress  ps  '-.seless  and  foolish.  The 
instant  I  enter  on  my  own  land,  the  bright  idea  of  property,  of 
exclusive  right,  of  independence,  exalts  my  mind.  Precious  soil, 
I  say  to  myself,  by  what  singular  custom  of  law  is  it,  that  ..lou  wast 
made  to  constitute  the  riches  of  the  freeholder?  What  should 
we  American  farmers  be,  without  the  distinct  possession  of  that 
soil?  It  feeds,  it  clothes  us;  from  it  we  draw  even  a  great  exu- 
berancy, our  best  meat,  our  richest  drink,  the  very  honey  of  our 
bees  come  from  this  privileged  spot.  No  wonder  we  should 
thus  cherish  its  possession,  no  wonder  that  so  many  Europeans 
who  have  never  been  able  to  say,  that  such  portion  of  land  was 
theirs,  cross  the  Atlantic  to  realize  that  happiness.  This  for- 
ri.:'rly  rude  soil  has  been  converted  by  my  father  into  a  pleasant 
farm,  and  in  return  it  has  established  all  our  rights;  on  it  is 
f  jimded  our  rank,  our  freedo  .1,  our  power  as  citizens,  our  impor- 
tance, as  inhabitants  of  such  a  district.  These  images,  I  must 
confess,  I  always  behold  with  i)leasure,  ind  extend  them  as  far 
as  my  imagination  can  reach :  for  this  is  what  may  be  called  the 
true,  and  the  only  jihilosophy  of  an  American  farmer.  Pray  do 
not  laugh  in  thus  seeing  an  artless  countryman  tracing  himself 
through  the  simple  modifications  of  his  life;  remember  that  you 
have  required  it;  therefore  with  candour,  though  with  diffidence, 
I  endeavor  to  follow  the  thread  of  my  feelings;  but  I  cannot  tell 


••  >9>^>fr«w^'*  vt^-4->»t'iH 


part  of  an 
which  may 
iing  images 
y  disappear 
my  heart  u 
imagination 
er  and  con- 
md  know  in 
IS  the  father 
ate  one  half 
annot;  then 
e  so  dear  to 
>'s  I  experi- 
it  is  always 
some  pleas- 
)olish.     The 
property,  of 
'recious  soil, 
lat  viiou  wast 
IVhat  should 
ssion  of  that 
a  great  exu- 
loney  of  our 
r  we  should 
ly  Europeans 
of  land  was 
,.     This  for- 
to  a  pleasant 
Its;  on  it  is 
5,  our  impor- 
uiges,  I  must 
them  as  far 
be  called  the 
er.     Pray  do 
cing  himself 
iber  that  you 
th  diffidence, 
I  cannot  tell 


•saaiW^ 


APPENDIX 


465 


you  all.     Often  wlicn  I  plough  my  ground,  I  place  my  little  boy 
on  a  chair,  which  screws  to  the  beam  of  the  plough,  -Us  motion, 
and  that  of  the  horses  please  him;  he  is  perfectly  happy,  and 
begins  to  chat.     As  I  lean  over  the   handle,   various  are  the 
thoughts  which  croud  into  my  mind.     I  am  now  doing  for  him, 
I  say,  what  my  father  formerly  did  for  me;  may  God  enable  him 
to  live,  that  he  may  perform  the  same  operations,  for  the  same 
purposes,  when  I  am  worn  out  and  old !     I  relieve  his  mother  of 
some  trouble,  while  I  havo  him  with  me;  the  oderiferous  furrow 
exhilerates  his  spirits,  and  seems  to  do  the  child  a  great  deal  of 
good,  for  he  looks  more  blcom  ng  since  I  have  adopted  that  prac- 
tice; can  more  pleasure,  more  dignity,  be  added  to  that  primary 
occupation?     The  father  thus  ploughing  with  his  child,  and  to 
feed  his  family,  is  inferior  only,  to  the  emperor  of  China,  plough- 
ing as  an  example  to  his  kingdom. 

[From  IMUrsfrom  an  Anurican  Farmer,  describing  C'r'ain  Prcr^maal^it- 
nations,  Manners,  and  Customs,  and  conveying  Some  Idea  of  the  ■^'"j';  «/ J' 
People  of  North  America.  Written  to  a  friend  in  England,  by  J.  Hector  bt. 
John  [CreveccEur],  a  Farmer  in  Pennsylvania,  1782.] 

311 


^•^g»»«r»««<»w»~<'- 


i  U. 


^i 

li 


1 ' 


I 

i 


i 


!  < 


'1! 

H  li  1 


m. 


^tfe#i^# 


•■i^  J    ^«J^  t-ai^ttilJi^    -St  -%.a5rti'fcj_> 


■Wi.,.,uiwji(!t*^»;jW)*' 


STUDIES  IN  AMERICAN  LITERATURE. 

A  Text-Book  for 
Academies  and  High  Schools. 

BY 

CHARLES  NOBLE, 

Professor  of  English  Language  and  Rhetoric  in  Iowa  College. 

12tno.     Cloth.     $1.00,  Met. 


"  It  has  the  great  text-book  merit,  that  it  is  tangible,  while  at 

the  same  time  il  contrives  to  unite  with  this  scientific  quality 

true  literary  appreciation." 

Stockweix  Axson, 

Adelphi  College,  Brooklyn,  N.  Y. 

"  It  is  so  preeminently  a  book  that  can  be  put  into  students' 

hands,  that  it  deserves  special  commendation.     In  it  Mr.  Noble 

presents  the  technicalities  of  literary  criticism  in  such  a  way  that 

the  student,  unaware,  must  needs  be  developed  in  a  power  of 

literary  api.reciation.     It  is  a  book  whose  charm  of  method  will 

find   a  warm   endorsement   among   teachers   of  English.     It   is 

that  rare  thing,  a  good  text-book." 

Harriet  L.  Mason, 

Drexel  Institute,  Philadelphia. 

"  A  book  full  of  interest,  and  especially  rich  in  material  on  the 

early  history  of  our  Uterature." 

EnwARD  S.  Parsons, 

Colorado  College,  Colorado  Springs. 


THE    MACMILLAN   COMPANY, 

66   FIFTH   AVENUE,   NEW  YORK. 


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AMERICAN    LITERATURE. 


KATHARINE  LEE  BATES, 

Wcllesley  College. 
lamo.    Cloth.    Price,  i.oo,  net. 


COMMENTS. 


"  It  is  a  valuable  addition  to  that  form  of  literature  which  is  half  bio- 
graphical and  half  critical,  and  wholly  instructive.  We  do  not  recall  any 
handbook  of  American  Literature  which  breathes  so  distinctly  the  spirit  and 
purpose  of  the  present  as  this."  —  A^.  V.  Home  Joiirmil. 

"  I  hjve  no  hesitation  in  pronouncing  this  thoughtful  sketch  that  you 
have  just  published  to  be  the  best  written  volume  that  I  have  ever  seen. 
The  author  has  knowledge;  the  book  proc  eds  from  unusually  full  and 
accurate  acquaintance  with  American  Letters.  The  suggestions  for  class- 
room use  seem  to  me  admirable."  —  Aubrrt  H.  Smvth,  Central  High 
Schocl,  Philadelphia,  Pa. 

"  I  am  delighted  with  the  sympathetic  treatment  and  cri'ical  insight  of 
Bates'  Amtfican  I.iterature.  The  uncommon  excellence  of  its  style  makes 
it  a  part  of  the  literature  it  describes."  — Caroline  Ladd  Crew,  Frietidi 
School,  WilmiHgton,  Del. 

"  It  is  a  pleasure  to  pick  up  such  a  neat  little  volume.  It  is  hard  to  lay 
it  down  after  one  begins.  The  combination  of  history  and  literature  is  very 
happy  and  the  development  of  literature,  side  by  side  with  the  materiel  and 
political  progress  of  the  country,  cannot  fail  to  be  of  great  service  to  teacher 
and  student."  — Frederick  A.  Voct,  Principal  Central  High  School, 
Buffalo,  AT.  V. 

"  I  have  no  doubt  this  book  will  be  a  great  success,  filling  well  a  gap; 
for  no  small  book  that  1  am  familiar  with  cnmi>?rfr  ns  well  .is  lliis  the 
authors  who  belong  together:  it  seems  more  than  simply  chronological  or 
descriptive;  it  weighs  and  balances."  —  Frances  A.  Mathes,  High  School, 
Portsmouth,  N.H. 


THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY, 

66   FIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YORK. 


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